


Stolen Children

by PengyChan



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:10:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years after Pitch's defeat, an increasing number of children stops believing in the Guardians for no apparent reason. And, as it turns out, the most obvious culprit is not the culprit at all this time: things are more complicated than that. Wonder, hope, dreams, precious memories and fun are wonderful things for any child to have - but when there is nothing to balance them out there can be very, very serious drawbacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fade to Black

**Author's Note:**

> Looking back, I should have known that watching RoTG could only end with me writing fic. I really should have. Oh well, better work on this while I'm inspired, I guess.
> 
> This chapter is a prologue of sorts, and it's set one year after the movie. The next chapters, and the bulk of the story, will be set five years after this one.

* * *

 

Come away, O human child!  
To the waters and the wild  
With a faery, hand in hand.  
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

W. B. Yeats, "The Stolen Child".

 

* * *

 

"But it's _not fair!_ ”

Timothy Pike rolled his eyes at his little brother's whining and turned to glare at him, swinging his basket a little. Sometimes Zachary was such a pain, and that was one of those times. He already regretted promising their mother to let him come to the egg hunt with him: he was just four years old and he whined all the time and he was slowing him down so much. Most of his friend had found at least ten eggs each already, and he was still stuck with just three. All because his dumb baby brother wouldn't stop complaining.

“Look, let's just keep looking for the eggs, okay? Adam just got one first. It's not the end of the world.”

“But I had spotted it first! And he pushed me aside to grab it!” Zachary protested, reaching to rub his backside for emphasis. That caused Timothy to frown a little.

“Did you get hurt?” he asked. Zachary was a pain, but he was still his baby brother, and he was _small_. Timothy was tall for his nine years, blond and blue-eyed like the kid from the latest cereals commercial, and he looked like a giant next to his brother – who was small and thin and black-haired, with eyes so dark one could barely tell iris and pupil apart. And he was popular, too, and had made a lot of friends in the three months they had been in Burgess while Zachary sulked and whined too much to have many.

Their mom often said they were like day and night, and Timothy was pretty sure he was supposed to be the day. And he also knew he was supposed to look after his little brother, so if Adam had actually _hurt_ him then he was in for a lot of trouble. Zachary, however, shook his head. “No, but it was not _fair_!”

That was enough to make Timothy's worry fade. So he wasn't hurt, good – he was just being his whiny self again, and he was making him waste a lot of time. “Look, this is how the egg hunt works, okay? You just have to be faster.”

“But I--!” Zachary began, only to trail off when some other kid, one of Timothy's friends, called out.

“Hey, Tim! Get a move on and come over here! Jamie's team is winning!”

And that was enough to take all of Tim's attention away from his brother. He liked Jamie, he really did, but the two of them had had a playful kind of rivalry since when Tim had moved there and like hell he was going to let him win just like that! “What? No way! I'll be there in a moment!” he replied, then turned to glance down at Zachary. “Got to go. Listen, you can keep looking on your own, right? Maybe on up the hill. There will be a lot less people there, so less competition for you,” he said.

Zachary frowned. “But mom said I had to stay with you!”

Tim rolled his eyes. “ _But mom said,_ ” he repeated in a whiny voice, causing his brother to scowl.

“I don't talk like that!”

“Then don't be a baby and just go look for some eggs on your own. Or are you scared of being on your own?” he added, a taunting note in his voice. He didn't really mean it, but he knew it was the quickest way to make Zachary do as he said: implying that he couldn't do it, or that he was too scared to. As usual, it worked.

“I'm not scared!” Zachary protested. “I don't scare!”

“Then what's the matter? You can just--”

“Tim, c'mon!” another kid called. “We'll never catch up this way! Just ditch the squirt and come over here!”

“Coming!” Timothy yelled. “Look, Zach, just go look for some eggs. I'm sure you'll have fun. We'll meet up again here before going home, okay? Great. See you!” he added, and he ran off without even waiting for an answer, not yet knowing he was going to regret that moment for a long, long time in a litany of 'if only' that would fill his sleepless nights.

If only I stayed with him.  
If only I brought him with me.  
If only I hadn't told him to go look for eggs up the hill.  
If only I was more careful.  
If only _he_ was more careful.  
If only he had gone home.  
If only he had been _scared_.  
If only, if only, _if only._

* * *

“Stupid eggs. Stupid Tim. Stupid Easter. Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_ ”

Zachary kicked a pebble with all his strength – admittedly, not much – and sent it rolling down the side of the hill. Tim had been right on at least something: no one was there. So at least he could throw a tantrum without being heard to and mocked for it... and, while he was at it, look for some eggs.

And he had found some, really, but they were not enough: he was sure his brother would get his basket full by the end of the hunt, and he wanted to do better... or at least not _much_ worse. But he had already looked in all the bushes and under all trees and there seemed to be no more eggs, and the basket was so big and _heavy_.

“Stupid hunt,” he muttered, putting down the basket and sitting with his back against the nearest tree, on that grew right over the side of the hill. But before he could begin sulking for real – and he was _really_ good at sulking – a bird made an odd sound just above him, and when he looked up he saw something... pink among the tree's branches.

_What...?_

Zachary stood and took a few steps backwards, looking up at the tree's branches, and then he saw it clearly: a pink Easter egg, tucked into an old nest high on the tree's branches. How had it gotten up there? And it was pretty high, too. Maybe he should call call Timothy and--

_Or are you scared of being on your own?_

The child frowned, his brother's mocking words lingering in the back of his mind. Yes, he thought, call him and then what? He'd climb up and show off and Zachary wouldn't be able to even protest anymore when he said he was scared of heighs. But he was not! He was not afraid!

And he was going to prove it.

Zachary Pike scowled up at the egg as though it was a personal enemy, then he walked up to the tree and began climbing up.

It wasn't really easy, because he was not that much of a climber, but at least he was light enough to reach the highest branches without them breaking. Once there he paused for a few moments to catch his breath, hair disheveled and clothes filled with bits of bark, then he glanced at the branch where the nest with the egg was. It was a long, thing one stretching from the tree to over the hillside. If he fell from there, Zachery thought, it would be a long way down.

But the egg was right there, and he was not afraid. He would just have to be careful and crawl over the branch without losing his balance. He was sure he could do it.

And he was not afraid. Even when he began crawling along the branch to move closer to the nest, even when the branch began bending little by little, even when a small creaking noise reached his ears, Zachary _was not afraid_.

He would live to regret it.

But in that moment he couldn't know, in that moment all he could think of was the bright pink egg just a little ahead of him. Zachary grinned and reached out, his fingers barely brushing against the egg. He narrowed his eyes against the sunlight shining directly on them and strained to reach out a little more, he was almost there, just a little--

_CRACK_

The cracking noise was sudden and loud as a gunshot to his ears; he didn't even have the time to process what was going on before he fell down the tree and over the hillside. He instinctively tried to reach out, but there was nothing for him to grab onto and he found himself with only a handful of leaves in his hand and sunlight in his eyes. For a moment it felt as though he was suspended in the air, with only blue sky and the sun above and nothing beneath him.

Then the ground rushed up to meet him, and everything faded to black.

 

* * *

 

“Zachary? Zach? Where are you? We've got to go home! This stopped being funny half a hour ago! ZACH!”

Timothy fell silent for a few moments, ears straining to catch a reply that did not come. His breath caught in his throat, the unpleasant beginning of panic starting to leak in through the annoyance. Why wasn't he answering? Where was he? He couldn't have gone home, because he knew that their parents would be angry at them both for not staying close as they had promised. But why wasn't he _answering_?

“Hey, Tim. Everything alright?”

Timothy wet his lips with a shaking tongue and turned to see a few other boys walking up to him – it was Jamie with his little sister, then Cole and Claude and Pippa. They all looked concerned, and somehow that added to Timothy's anxiety instead of soothing him. He swallowed. “I... I can't find Zach,” his said, his voice shaking and on the verge of breaking. “I keep calling and calling, but he doesn't answer and I can't find him!”

“What?”

“Where was he before?”

“Has anyone seen him? Claude?”

“No, I didn't...”

Jamie bit his lower lip. “Maybe he just went home? I mean, maybe he got tired and just--”

“No!” Timothy exclaimed. “He can't have! He knows mom and dad would get mad at us if we don't go back together! We had to meet up here! I was supposed to look after him, and... and...” his voice broke, and he drew in a shaky breath before turning and trying to call out once more. “ZACH! _ZACH_!”

“Then we're going to look for him,” Jamie's voice reached him. “Sophie, go home, okay? I'll be back as soon as we find Zach. I'm sure he can't have wandered far,” he added, clearly doing his best to sound reassuring. “Any idea where he could have gone?”

Timothy shook his head, trying not to panic and to clear his head. “I... I think he went to look for eggs on the hill. But I already looked up there, and I couldn't see him.”

“We'll have another look. Maybe he's around there somewhere now,” Jamie said.

“We'll look around here, then,” Cole said.

“And at the lake,” added Pippa.

Claude nodded. “Right. We'll find him in a minute, Tim, no worries. First one to find him yells, okay?”

“Okay!”

And with that it was set: they all scattered in different directions, with Jamie and Timothy heading up the hill. But when they got there everything was just as before, when Timothy had checked: there was nobody up there. “Nothing. Jamie, I... I'm going to go down to look around the lake too, okay? Maybe he got lost in the woods there,” Timothy said, his voice still shaking, and turned to run down the way they had come without even waiting for an answer. It was clear he was getting frantic, and Jamie sure couldn't blame him: he would be too if Sophie went missing.

But nothing could have happened to Zachary, he told himself. Nothing _bad_ could have happened, because... because it was Easter, and Bunnymund was there watching over them – Jamie had spotted him at some point, helping Sophie finding the eggs, and had waved at him – and so he knew they all were safe. Right?  
_Right?_

He turned was about to follow Timothy down the path, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eyes that made him pause – a hint of blue in the middle of a patch of glass. He looked better, and then could see something else hidden in that patch right beneath a tree.

The handle of a basket.

_Zachary's basket...?_

Jamie stepped forward, his mouth suddenly dry as desert, and yes, there it was – a basket with a few eggs in it. But why was it there? Why would _anyone_ leave it there? His eyes shifted from the basket to the tree, and there, high above him, there was a piece of a broken branch that had once extended over the side of the--

_No!_

His mind filling with dread, Jamie ran up to the hillside and looked down. There was a moment of stillness and silence, shock paralyzing him – then his mind truly registered what he was seeing and he cried out, turned on his heels with such haste that he almost stumbled and began running down from where he had come, screaming for help at the top of his lungs.

Leaving behind a still, pale body crumpled on a rock down the hill, black hair matted with blood.

 

* * *

 

“How _could_ this happen?”

Bunnymund's words fell into a heavy silence. Jack bit his lower lip, not quite knowing what to say; Bunnymund hadn't sounded _that_ distraught even when Ester had been ruined by Pitch the previous year. His gaze shifted from North to Tooth and then to Sandy, but none of them said or did anything: they just stood there with their eyes lowered. The silence was only broken by the sound of the door opening when Sophie walked inside Jamie's room. She was silent and looked somewhat worried as she looked at Bunnymund.

“Bunny sad,” she said.

Bunnymund, who had been sitting against a wall with his head lowered, seemed to perk up a little and made a reasonable attempt at a smile in her direction. “Hey, ankle-biter,” he greeted her, and that was just about all he was able to say before Sophie ran into his arms. His smile faded into a sigh and he held her into a tight hug, shutting his eyes tighter.

That was when Sandy stepped forward and began moving his arms, bright golden pictures forming in sand above his head. While Jack had gotten better at understanding what he said, the other had a lot more time of practice under their belt and were quicker.

“Sandy is right,” Tooth murmured, reaching to put a hand on Bunnymund's shoulder. “This was not your fault.”

There was a long, deep sigh. “Thanks, I guess. But I could have... I should... I'm supposed to _protect_ the kids, mate! I'm a Guardian, and look what happens on my day, under my watch! Today is supposed to be all about hope, and instead--!”

“Listen now,” North spoke up, cutting him off. “We protect children, but we have limits. No one is everywhere all the time, Bunnymund. Not even Guardians. We do good, we do our best, but not the impossible.”

Jack supposed that made sense. While they were supposed to protect children _everywhere_ , it was a fact that there were many things they could not save them from. They could give them hope and wonder and good dreams, keep their good memories alive and make them have fun... but there were some things they could not protect them from. Not always, not everyone... and not that time. It was not a pleasant thought, but it was how things _were_. And Bunnymund had to know that, too, for he just sighed and held little Sophie closer.

“I know that. I _know_. But I was _there_ , mate. Showed up to check on the kids and maybe stepped right past this one. Maybe he fell right while I was with the others near the lake, and... and I should have checked where _all_ the eggs were hidden! What if he climbed up to look for a bloody _egg_?”

Damn, Jack thought, that had to be a horrible thought. He did his best to smile. “Hey, you're assuming the worst. I mean, he could be fine. Maybe it's nothing as serious as we think. So why don't we wait for Jamie to be back with news before we bandage our... er. Before we assume the worst?” he finished a little awkwardly.

Thankfully, no one minded his slip. Bunnymund just nodded, and so they waited. It wasn't a too long wait, but it would have felt like eternity hadn't it been for Sophie's cheerful babbling keeping the atmosphere from getting too grim; she even managed to make Bunnymund chuckle a couple of times.

Sandy had just started making sand figures to amuse her when the door opened and Jamie walked in. Everyone immediately paused what they had been doing and stood. Tooth, who had been trying to look into Sophie's mouth to check her baby teeth, immediately flew to him. “Well? How is he?” she asked anxiously.

Jack could hear Bunnymund take in a sharp breath, as though he was readying himself for the worst, and North put a hand on his shoulder while looking at Jamie in silent wait.

Jamie gave them a weak smile. He looked tired, really tired, and there was a line on his forehead that had never been there before. “Well, the doctors say he... he won't die. They keep him asleep now, but they'll let him wake up soon. And his back and neck are fine, so he will walk and all,” he added.

That all sounded like good news, but Jack would have been a _lot_ more relieved hadn't Jamie's eyes shifted across the room like that, hadn't he looked so tense and so sad. And he couldn't be the only one to have noticed, for only Sophie cheered: all the others just kept silent, and waited.

“But...?” Jack heard Bunnymund say hoarsely.

Jamie sighed. “Listen, this wasn't your fault, okay? It was an accident. Accidents happen, and--”

“ _Please_ ,” Bunnymund cut him off, his voice strained, “just tell me what's up. What's wrong with him?”

There was a long moment of silence, then Jamie sighed and sat on his bed. “There was some... problem with the brain. A blood loss inside, I don't know. They say there was... pressure in his brain because of that. They took the blood out, but the pressure did something to... to the optic nerves. They didn't get blood for some time, and... they say...” he paused and sucked in a deep breath, but spoke again when Jack sat next to him without a word. “They probably won't work again. They say Zach is going to be blind,” he finished weakly.

For a moment Jack forgot how to breathe: the thought a child, a _four year old_ would have to spend the rest of his life seeing nothing but darkness all around him was overwhelming, too horrible to think of. There was a collective gasp, and then Bunnymund just... just _sank_ on the floor, his ears dropping. He took his face in his hands, and not even Sophie's concerned blabbering could make him look up.

“This is not your fault,” North said quietly, and Tooth put a hand on his shoulder again, but Bunnymund acknowledged neither. When he finally looked up, he turned to Sandy.

“Sandy, since he's sleeping, can you... you know...?”

He didn't have to finish the question: Sandy nodded at him, and the next moment he was flying up the window in a cloud of golden sand. Jack could tell that the child, that Zach, was about to have some wonderful dreams, and that made the situation a little more bearable somewhat.

But he didn't think – none of them did – that wonderful dreams could make things _worse_. Because yes, the boy would dream of sunny days and and blue skyes, of great egg hunts and laughter and everything else a child could wish for. But then the dream would end, as dreams do, and the boy would wake up from a dream into a waking nightmare: he would open his eyes to see _nothing_.

And then he would scream.


	2. The Lair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zachary falls again, and finds a not exactly stable individual underground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that some of the things Zachary pulls off in this chapter sound incredible for someone who cannot see a thing (I wouldn't have found it believable at all in a story until a while back), but it actually IS possible. If you're interested, I'll spend a few words on human echolocation in the chapter's end notes.

"And then you became a bat!"

The man paused his tale at the exclamation that left his nephew – he still wasn't really willing to give in and refer to him as his _grand_ nephew – and gave a heartfelt laugh. The comparison with bats was nothing he had not heard already, but the little boy's enthusiasm was amusing nonetheless.

"Well, it was not _that_ quick: echolocation takes quite some time and training to learn well enough to move around easily. But yes, thankfully I turned out to be a natural. Though I'm afraid no Batmobile came with the package; only this," he added, leaning back on his chair and lightly tapping his cane on the kitchen floor.

"But how is it like?" another voice, that of the boy's sister, asked. "Grandpa Timothy told me that the sound you make bounces around and tells you where things are."

Zachary Pike smiled before clicking his tongue, making the noise that had pretty much become his signature. The echo told him what the already knew: the children were sitting across the table still covered in dishes, right ahead of him. He could tell that without echolocation, really, but oh well. "That's pretty much it, yes. It also tells me how big objects are, their approximate shape, how close they are, and their density."

"Density?"

"I can tell if they're something I can walk through, like leaves, or not – like a wall."

"Oh. But what does it _feel_ like?" the girl asked again, clearly curious. That caused Zachary to frown for a few moments, trying to think of a satisfying way to put it; after all he had become blind when he was four years old, almost sixty years earlier. It wasn't that easy thinking of explanation someone with sight could easily grasp, not after spending almost all of his life in darkness.

"Imagine you're in a dark room," he finally said. "Completely dark, and filled with objects and people. And you have to move around. Luckily you have a flashlight, but the light doesn't stay: it blinks, there one second and gone the next, and again over and over. Can you picture that?"

"Hu-uh."

"Good. Now, would you manage to move around using that light?"

"Yep. I mean, I'd just need to pay attention all times the light is on, and I'd know where I have to go."

Zachery nodded. "Precisely. You may not get the full picture, but you can get to see, moment for moment, what there is where you point the light – and move accordingly. Now, echolocation works in a very similar way; only with sound. The sounds I make are like switching a flashlight on and then off over and over."

"Wow," she murmured clearly impressed.

"Hey, Uncle!" her brother quipped in. "What's in my hand?"

Zachary clicked his tongue, and only needed to listen for half a moment. "I'd be very grateful if you put the tray down, Pat. It's rather heavy, and it would be a shame if it fell and broke," he said, causing the child to burst in giggles. His sister, however, didn't laugh.

"Grand Uncle?" she asked a bit hesitantly, and the smile that had been playing on the man's lips faded: she only called him that when she was seriously thoughtful.

"What is it?"

"Why was Grandpa so mean to you that day?"

The man shook his head. "Mean? Your grandfather was not mean at all to me. He was just a child, too, and he wanted to go play with his friends without having to drag along his whiny little brother. It's normal. Accidents happen, and sometimes it isn't anybody's fault. It wasn't Tim's fault any more than it was Bunnymund's. Though of course, at the time I was angry. Not at your grandfather, but at the Easter Bunny himself. And North – Santa – because no matter how many Christmas nights I spend wishing I could see again: the one gift I wanted, _sight_ , would not come. I was angry at Sandman because he filled my night with dreams that made awakening to reality so much harder. I was angry at Jack Frost because ice made it difficult for me to walk and fresh snow absorbed sounds that would have helped me tell what was going on around me. And I was angry at the Tooth Fairy because..." he paused, and frowned a bit. "You know, children, I'm not sure why I was angry at _her_ , too. I supposed just being one of the Guardians Jamie and his friends spoke so highly of was enough for me to hate her. As far as I was concerned, they had all failed me. I was blaming them unjustly, but I was just a child and I was very, very bitter for what had happened to me. But that changed once we- oh, but I get ahead of my self. Why don't we get back to the story?"

That immediately brightened her mood again. "Yes!"

"Story! Story!" Pat echoed.

"Very well. Then go change in your pajamas and brush your teeth."

"What? But you said-"

"Do that first, and _then_ you'll get the story. I have no intention to wake you up to make you change and brush your teeth should you fall asleep halfway through. Go. The sooner you're back, the sooner you can hear the rest. And _use floss_ , or Tooth will never let me hear the end of it!" he called out after them as they ran upstairs to try getting changed and all in record time.

He smiled when he heard them chattering excitedly, then he stood and began taking some of the dishes off the table: no harm in getting ahead with that while they kids were upstairs anyway. He was scraping some food off a pan when he heard it, an almost imperceptible sound that would have been lost to most ears: that of sand shifting as though in a faint wind.

He turned and clicked his tongue, but the echo only bounced off a wall and the grandfather clock standing against it. That didn't mean much, though: echolocation let him locate physical people and objects, so it didn't work on _him_ when he merged into shadow to stay hidden. Zachary turned his attention back to the pan he was cleaning, but there was a small smile curling his lips as he began half-singing, half-humming an old song to himself, listening carefully for reactions.

" _Hello darkness, my old friend / I've come to talk with you again / Because a vision softly creeping / Left its seeds while I was sleeping..."_

There _was_ a reaction, if barely audible: the echo of an amused chuckle that came from nowhere and everywhere at once, quick as a whisper of breeze – and Zachary knew he had been right. More than two people were there to listen to his tale, apparently. As if _he_ didn't know precisely what had happened, he mused right before two children burst into the kitchen again, claiming they were all ready – _"_ _and we used floss too, we really did!"_ – and demanding for him to resume his tale.

And that he did: he sat back on his chair and resumed talking, his voice a bit louder than before.

So that the thing in the shadows could listen as well.

* * *

_No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! - by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman - a howl - a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation..._

"Zach?"

Timothy's voice caused Zachary to lift his head, his hands pausing in mid-read. He wasn't supposed to be reading that kind of stuff, but one of the bright sides of Braille books – the _only_ bright side, really – was that no one else in the house could tell what _was_ it he was reading. As long as he bought the books by himself, he could read whatever he wanted.

"What is it?" he asked, turning to the door despite the sheer uselessness of the gesture. He could hear the boards creaking on the doorway, but there were no steps, so he assumed that Timothy was just standing there shifting his weight from one leg to the other – like always when he was nervous or uneasy. He was uneasy around him a lot more often than Zachary would have liked, but then again everyone was. Poor little Zach, he thought sarcastically, and had to keep himself from scowling openly.

"The guys and I are going at the lake to have a swim. It's pretty hot outside. Do you want to come with-"

"No." Zachary's voice came out sharper than he had meant it to, and he felt a pang of regret immediately afterward. "No, thanks," he added. "I want to finish this story."

"Oh. Okay," he heard Timothy saying, then there were steps as he approached the bed Zachary was sprawled onto. "So, what are you reading?"

"Goldilocks and the Three Bears."

Predictably enough, Timothy didn't fall for it. "Horror stuff again?"

"Yep."

"You're too young for that," Timothy said for maybe the millionth time. At fourteen years of age he seemed to consider himself a man through and thorough already. "Mom says you'll get nightmares this way."

I wish, Zachary thought bitterly, but he knew better than voicing such thoughts: he didn't want to have to explain to anyone how horrible it was, dreaming every night that everything was fine and peachy and then waking up every day to nothing but darkness. So in the end he just shrugged. "You're not going to tell her, right?"

A hand reached to ruffle his hair. "Of course not. But I'm not changing your sheets if you wet your bed."

"I'm not the one who had to wear diapers at night until-"

"Hey! You promised you wouldn't bring it up!"

Zachary grinned. "I promised I wouldn't bring it up in _public_ ," he said, and before Timothy could reply the doorbell rang.

"Must be the guys. Gotta go. See you," Timothy murmured, the uneasiness back as quickly as it had gone.

"See you," Zachary heard himself murmuring, and as soon as his brother was gone he busied himself by resuming his read. But that distraction didn't last much: the story was over after just a couple more paragraphs, leaving Zachary to wonder how could anyone be dumb enough not to notice they were bricking up a living cat in the wall with a corpse.

He put down the book and reached up, where the window was, to open it and let in the warm air of late Spring. Timothy had been right: it was pretty hot outside, and to be honest a swim would have felt good. But he didn't want to go at the lake with the others, pretend he didn't notice how awkward they acted around him or how they looked after him all the time thinking he wouldn't notice it.

But maybe he could use a walk. Maybe in the woods on the other side of the lake, far enough for them not to notice him, so that he could practice echolocation a bit more. He was getting real good and he was ready to take on trickier environment than just the town, but he wanted to do so without worried eyes constantly on him. He couldn't see those gazes every time he walked across the town or crossed the street but man, didn't he _feel_ them.

But if he went alone, he thought as he stood and reached to grab his cane, no one would be there to watch and he could make some actual progress in peace. With that hot weather and all the kids swimming or fishing in the lake, he told himself as he went to the door, who would bother him?

* * *

To his credit, up until the moment the ground just gave way beneath him things actually went pretty well. The forest ground was tricky, but he could avoid all obstacles – trees, bushes, fallen branches – without trouble, and the cane was enough to detect any hole on the ground that may have escaped him. Last thing he wanted was spraining his ankle or something.

The only thing that made him pause at some point was the sound of voices coming from the lake. He had heard them all along, laughs and yells of maybe a dozen kids, but until that moment he had steered clear so that they wouldn't spot him. Now they sounded closer, though, and Zachary decided to get just a bit deeper in the woods; enough to make sure he wouldn't be noticed and this was left alone. So he turned to his right, clicked his tongue – the trees were sparse there, and it seemed like there was a small open space without trees beyond them – and then began walking again, stepping past a fallen branch with no hesitation in his stride. Well, he thought with some amount of satisfaction, at least he was getting _good_.

His satisfaction, however, lasted only a few more steps – because at some point, when he put down his foot, the ground beneath him just _caved in_ and he–

_Not again!_

Zachary had barely the time to open his mouth before the ground swallowed him.

* * *

"What _was_ it with you and falling down?"

The man chuckled. "Bad luck, I suppose. And not enough experience with echolocation yet."

"Did you get hurt?" Pat asked worriedly.

"Not that time, no. It wasn't a fall going straight down, you see. It was a tunnel that curved, so it was like... going down a slide. Made of rock. But I'd take a few scrapes over a broken back any time, so I didn't really feel like complaining. Besides, once I was down there I found something... distracting."

"What was it?"

"A treasure chest? A pirate ship?"

Zachary laughed. "A pirate ship in the woods?"

"So? You were near water!"

"A _lake_."

"Oh. Right. Then what was it?"

The man smiled. "The question you should ask is, _who_ was it?"

* * *

"OUCH!"

The yelp that left Zachary's mouth the moment he hit the ground – cold, _hard_ ground – was more one of surprise than one of pain. After a few moments spent muttering several things that would gaion him a _serious_ scolding from his parents, he pushed himself up so that he could sit. His first action was, of course, clicking his tongue to get a picture of _where_ the hell he was.

He was at the beginning of a tunnel that went on for a bit, apparently. Behind him there was only solid rock, and it took him only a few moments to realize that the walls of whatever tunnel he had slid into were too steep for him to climb back all the way up. With a rope going down the hole, maybe, but not just like that. He couldn't go back that way, and no one knew he was there. Oh joy.

With a deep breath, Zachary reached out to pick up his cane and turned to the tunnel. It was the only way he could go, and if anything he could hope it would lead him out and-

He had barely taken a few steps when the sound reached his ears, that of a strong wind blowing through a narrow passage. He had barely the time to sigh in relief, thinking that meant there was an exit ahead of him, before it hit him.

Sand.

Zachary was thrown backwards by the force of the impact, his back hitting the wall, but he didn't even gasp: he _couldn't_ gasp, couldn't dare to open his mouth for fear that the sand – _why sand why what is sand doing underground what's going on_ – would get in it. He lifted his arms to shield his face, and all of a sudden he found himself thinking back of one time on the beach when he was just a little kid: there had been a sudden, strong blow of wind, and for several endless moments he was surrounded by sand, the particles whipping his skin and getting in his mouth and nose and eyes. He had spat up sand for hours afterward.

But this time it lasted less, so much less: only a couple of instants and the sand and wind were gone, howling up the tunnel above him, and then the sound vanished as well. Zachary stayed still for a few moments, trying to catch his breath, then he finally lowered his arms.

"What. The. Hell," he muttered to the darkness all around him, his heart beating somewhere in his throat. He stayed still and listened, but he could hear no other sound at all. He slowly stood again, the cane held tight in his hand, and began walking down the tunnel as quickly as he could, tongue clicking continuously so that he could detect obstacles. He wanted out, and he wanted out _now_.

The tunnel want straight ahead for a bit, with no obstacles except something handing from the ceiling – stalactites? – he wasn't tall enough to hit his head against anyway. Then the tunnel made a turn; Zachary followed it, then clicked his tongue once again...

…and found himself stopping in his tracks, taken aback as the echo bounced back to tell him he was inside a very large but apparently closed space. His first thought was of a cave, and a huge on at that, but...

Zachary tilted up his head and resumed clicking his tongue. The place was huge, yes, but not empty. There were odd structures crossing it like bridges – bridges? Could that be? – and things hanging from the ceiling that were definitely not stalactites. Zachary tried to use that information to make an image of what the place had to look like in his head, but it was something so much weirder than anything he had ever even imagined. A cave with bridges across it and weird things similar to _chandeliers_ hanging from the ceiling? How was that even possible? Was his echolocation failing _that_ epically? Or maybe there was another explanation to-

"Nnngh..."

Zachary's confused thoughts went to an abrupt halt when a groan reached his ears, coming from somewhere below him. He tilted his head down and clicked his tongue, but whatever was making that noise was too far down for him to read the echo. But he could tell something, at least, something that was nothing short of incredible – only a few steps from him there was a staircase leading down. He took step forward and tapped it with his cane. Yes, he thought in amazement, those were actually _stairs_. Where was he? Had he found some kind of ancient building, or...?

Another weak groan came form beneath him, and this time Zachary could tell that it was not an animal's noise. No, that sounded like a man's voice.

"Hey!" Zachary called out. "Hey! Is someone there?"

He got not reply but the echo of his own voice. But someone was down there, he was sure of it, and they were _groaning_. Without further thought, Zachary began climbing down the stairs. It took him some time – it was a _long_ way down if he fell, so he used his cane to tap each stair before he put down his foot, not trusting himself to rely on echolocation alone – but in the end he was on bottom of the staircase. He clicked his tongue a couple of times, and there it was: a still form on the ground, right ahead of him.

And it looked – _felt_ – all the world like a human body. Zachary's mouth suddenly felt dry.

"Who...?"

There was no answer but a sudden, hitching breath. Zachery dropped his cane, crouched next to the form and reached out to shake it.

He never got to. There was a cry that sounded more like a roar, and the next moment a hand wrapped around Zachary's throat, choking the cry he was about to let out. His back hit the ground and the hand still wouldn't let go of his throat, keeping him pinned there. He could hear someone's heavy breathing above him, but he barely registered: he was too busy fumbling to pry the hand off his throat so that he could _breathe_.

"Let me go! Let me _go_!" he wheezed. There was a sharp intake of breath above him, then the hand let him go as though he had suddenly caught fire. Zachary sucked in a few convulsive breaths and scrambled back.

"You're... a boy?" a man's voice asked. He sounded confused, as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Despite the earlier scare, Zachary found himself snorting.

"No, I'm a girl. Name's Alice." he grumbled, pulling himself off the ground and on his feet. He was a bit surprised by how firm his own voice was now that the guy had let go of his throat and didn't seem to be up to attack him again. "Don't you happen to have seen a white rabbit with a clock running in here?"

The man gave no sign of having even heard him. "They're gone," he muttered, and then there was the sound of someone standing and taking a few steps.

"They?" Zachary asked.

"The Nightmares," the man replied, relief now plain in his voice. It was as though he wasn't even talking to him, though; as though he was giving the answers to _himself_.

"Nightmares," Zachary repeated flatly. The guy sounded like he was completely bonkers. He took a few steps back and clicked his tongue to make sure he wasn't too close to him, but it turned out to be a mistake: the sound caused the man's attention to shift back to him.

"You!" he exclaimed, and the next moment he seized Zachary by his shoulders. "I can _touch_ you!"

"Uh..." Too taken aback by the surreal turn the talk was taking to even begin to worry about it, Zachary tilted his head on one side. "I... guess so?"

The man released him, and then a laugh of triumph filled the... cave, or underground palace, or whatever that place was. It sounded everything like those laughs bad guys in movies make when they're sure their plan to take over the world is about to succeed. Usually with the result of wasting time that they could have used to kill the hero instead. Zachary had often wondered why so many bad guys in movies and books seemed to think that having a pleasant talk with their enemy instead of killing them outright would be a bright idea.

"You can see me! You _see_ me!" the man exclaimed, apparently delighted for some reason.

Zachary frowned. "Actually, I _don't_ ," he pointed out.

The man abruptly stopped laughing. "What? Nonsense! Of course you do! There's enough light for you to!"

"Uh, no. I don't. I'm-" Zachary began, only to be cut off by a dismissive snort.

"Don't you dare mock me, child," the man said, his voice now a threatening drawl. "How would we be _talking_ otherwise?"

What the...? "Because I'm... neither deaf nor mute?" Zachary pointed out.

The man growled. "I told you _not to mock me_. Don't you know who I am, boy? Do you even imagine it? I-" he trailed off, then he took a few steps to Zachary's left. The boy listened, and there was the sound of something being picked up from the ground... very likely his cane.

"That's, uh, mine. Can I have it back?" he called out.

The man didn't even seem to hear him. Zachary heard the sound of his cane tapping the ground lightly. "So this is what you meant," he muttered. "I see."

"Lucky you," Zachary said dryly. "Now, can I have-" he trailed off when he heard his cane falling on the ground with a clatter, as though the man had just dropped it. "HEY!" he protested, reaching to feel the ground to pick it up. The guy didn't even pay attention to his protest and began pacing back and forth, muttering under his breath.

"That's not relevant. You _know_ I'm here, and _would_ see me if your eyes worked."

"What are you even-"

"QUIET!" he snarled. "Yes, that's what matters. You didn't walk through me."

"I didn't... what?"

He gave no sign of having heard him, and just kept pacing and muttering. "Then not everything is lost. If you can see me, then it means-"

"But I don't _see_ you! I don't see _anything_!"

The man trailed off and gave the long sigh of someone barely holding his temper in check. "Would you _kindly_ quit interrupting to discuss of semantics?" he said, his voice threateningly quiet.

Zachary snapped. "Semantics? _Nothing_ you say makes sense! I don't even know where I am, or who in the world you _are_ , or how can I get out of here, and... and you keep talking like... wait. _Wait_. Did you run away from a madhouse or something?" he asked, taking a step back and holding his cane a little tighter, just in case the madman decided to attack him.

There was a moment of stillness and silence, then the man laughed. It was a low, cold laugh. "Oh, my bad. It seems that I forgot my manners. Very well, then. Where are you? In my humble lair. Who am I? You should ask _what_ am I!" He laughed again, this time louder – and then he cried out in triumph, his voice deafeningly loud and coming from everywhere at once as it reverberated one the stone walls all around them.

"I AM THE BOOGEYMAN!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human echolocation is an ability of humans to detect objects in their environment by sensing echoes from those objects. This can be done by making noise (often tongue clicks) and listening to the resulting echoes. There are people who can actually ride bikes or hike just fine even though they're completely blind thanks to it. There are a few videos on YouTube if you're interested; those people are pretty amazing.  
> The explanation Zachary gives about how it feels like actually comes from one of those videos: as someone who can't really KNOW how it would precisely feel like, I felt that relying on the words of someone who DOES was the best way to go.
> 
> Also, just in case you never heard it the song Zachary sings in the first scene is "Sound of Silence" by Simon&Garfunkel. The tale he's reading in the second one is "Tha Black Cat" by Edgar Allan Poe.


	3. Pitch Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pitch isn't sure what to think of the oddball who wandered in his lair, but is interested nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much to say about this chapter aside that there is a lot of talking and not much action. Sorry about that, but some things needed to be talked through before the plot could actually start.
> 
> That said, thanks a lot for the comments and the kudos!

Pitch would have never thought that simply stating who he was could feel that _good_.

For all the time he had been down there at the mercy of his own Nightmares – how much he could not tell, but it had felt like an eternity – he had pretty much felt his mind and thoughts slipping away until the only thing that filled his mind were the incessant whisper from his subconscious that the Nightmares had given voice to. It whispered and whispered and it would. Never. _Stop_.

_will never see you again_  
_never_  
_just a bad dream_  
_no such thing as the Boogeyman_  
_walk right through you_  
_like cold shower_  
_through you_  
_like being gutted_  
_cannot breathe_  
_cast out_  
_a bad dream_  
_not real_  
_hated_  
_no such thing_  
_weak_  
_weak_  
_WEAK_

I am the Boogeyman, he had tried to tell himself, tried to repeat it over and over as he clutched his head as thought hoping it would stop the whispering. And then he had tried to repeat his name – Pitch Black, Pitch Black, PITCH BLACK – so that he wouldn't forget it, so that he wouldn't completely lose himself.

_Pitch Black Pitch Black Pitch Black Pitch Pitch Pitch Pitch PITCH_

But no matter how much he screamed it in or repeated it over and over in his mind: the whispers were stronger, louder, covered his own voice and smothered his words and wouldn't stop, wouldn't _stop_.

Then they had stopped. No more whispering. And, for a brief time, there was only silence.

And now, now there was this child. This child he had first thought was a Nightmare back for him, this child who knew he was there, this child who _believed in him_.

And with that realization came another, one that filled him with strength he had lacked until moments earlier: if there was someone left to believe in him, then not everything was lost yet. He had laughed, then, and screamed who he was in triumph. Now he stood there, arms raised and towering over the child, waiting for the meaning of his words to sink in and for him to scream in fear so that he could feed on it – because it had been so long since last time he had tasted anyone's fear but his own, too long, and he couldn't wait to--

“Huh.”

For a few moments Pitch's expression didn't change: a wide grin stayed pasted on his face for several moments, sharp teeth bared. Then he blinked and the grin began to fade. He lowered his arms and stared down at the boy – who kept his face tilted up to him even though he couldn't see a thing – with equal amount of outrage and disbelief. He was a small, runty thing with black hair and almost worryingly pale skin; he looked all the world like one of those children who jump in fight at the first whisper in the dark. But then why _wasn't he?_

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

The boy frowned. “What?”

“ _Huh.”_

“Huh?”

“Yes, _that_. Is it all you have to say?”

The boy shrugged. “Guess I could have added a 'nice to meet you', but you tried to choke me and dropped my cane when I asked you to give it back, so not really.”

Pitch grit his teeth, a thundering growl leaving his throat. “You little ignorant _gnat_! Do you have any idea who I am?”

“The Boogeyman. You told me.”

Pitch glared down at him. Had the child been able to see him, he thought, he certainly would have been terrified already. Of course. No doubt about it. None. At. All. “Then you should know that the most appropriate reaction upon meeting me should be _screaming_.”

The boy sighed, then he drew in a deep breath and, indeed, he screamed. Just not precisely the way Pitch had thought of. “MY NAME IS ZACHARY! HOW DO I GET OUT OF HERE?”

Taken aback, Pitch almost – almost – stepped back, his eyes widening in surprise and confusion before narrowing. “Are you defective or just _insane_?” he growled.

“But you said--”

“You must _fear_ me! You would if you had any brain! I know all your worst fears, and I could use them against you any... any...” he fell silent, staring incredulously down at the boy, then tried to reach out _again_ for his mind. He was by no means a mind-reader, but he could scan people's minds to find their worst fears: that was how he worked, and a quick look would tell him all he needed to know.

Except that now it wasn't working. He couldn't sense that boy's fears at all, as though... as though...

“This cannot be,” he murmured, more to himself than to the boy.

The boy – Zachary he had said he was called – tilted his head on one side. “What cannot be?”

“I can find no fears at all in you, and that's impossible. What _are_ you?”

“Last time I checked, a blind specimen of Homo Sapiens Sapiens.”

Pitch snorted. “You're not fooling me. You cannot be human. Fear is in human nature! No human being is free from it!”

“Hey, I used to be scared of things. Like dogs. And needles. And Mystery Meat.”

The Boogeyman blinked. “Mystery Meat?” he repeated.

“Never went to school, did you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “That question is so idiotic I'll opt to ignore it. More to the point – you _used_ to?”

The boy shrugged and reached up to wave a hand in front of his own face. Unseeing eyes stayed fixed ahead, not even following the movement. “The worst happened already and I'm stuck in the dark. Doubt much else measures to it.”

Pitch stared at him for a few moments, then he scoffed. “You truly _are_ ignorant. There are much worse things than that,” he said, but he could see part of the child's point: as someone who lived his life in darkness, he reasoned, he had certainly learned not to fear what may hide in it. Now that was... an interesting case. But the point still stood that the boy was aware of his presence, and did not pass right through him when grabbed. Which meant... “You believe in me, though,” he stated.

“More or less. I believe in a lot of stuff. Well, hard not to now. Unless you're a nutcase who's been making stuff up.”

Pitch chuckled and, without another word, left his physical form to merge with the shadows all around them. He slithered past the boy, who frowned in confusion at the sudden silence. “Hey. Hey, what's up?” he asked, and then made a clicking sound with his tongue; it took a moment for Pitch to realize the boy relied on echolocation, much like bats in dark caves. Fascinating. “Where are you?” he called out again, clearly confused upon failing to locate him.

Pitch kept in the shadows, and slid right behind him. Only then he took his physical form back. “Right here,” he sneered in the boy's ear, and gave a satisfied chuckle at his startled gasp. The boy turned to face him again and clicked his tongue, as though to make sure he truly was there. Pitch just smiled. “Satisfied now?”

“How did you get there?”

“As I told you, I'm the Boogeyman. I can turn into pure shadow any moment I see fit. How do you think I hide under beds without being seen?”

The boy tilted his head on one side again. “I thought you didn't get seen a lot regardless,” he said, causing Pitch's satisfied sneer to fade into a scowl.

“And how would you know that?” he hissed. Part of him was aware of the fact he may be making a mistake by showing he had hit a sore spot, but then again what could he possibly have to fear from a blind boy?

“Just figured it out since you kept going on and on about how I 'saw' you and thus had to believe in you and acted like it was the greatest thing after sliced cheese. The two things are linked, right? Seeing and believing, I mean. Not sliced cheese.”

Pitch glowered. “Am I supposed to believe you figured _that_ out on your own, too?”

Zachary shook his head. “Nope. Jamie told me that thing about belief once. He won't shut up about the Guardians. I wish he _did_ ,” he added, and the scowl that had started to twist Pitch's features at the mention of the Guardians turned into mild confusion and interest as he sensed the sudden bitterness in the boy's voice.

“You don't sound like you're their fan,” he commented, trying to sound casual. He didn't miss the way the boy's grip around his cane tightened.

“Not really,” he finally said darkly. Pitch's interest went up another notch. A child who _didn't_ like the Saccharine Brigade? Fascinating, especially since that seemed more than just mild dislike: it was a resentment that bordered into _hatred_. He wondered what may have caused it. Why, he thought, if only all children were like that he would have certainly _won_ , and--

… _wait._

The realization hit him all at once, leaving him speechless for a moment. He had been so focused on making children stop believing in the Guardians that he hadn't for a moment considered the idea of making them as hated as he was instead. Granted, it would be harder than just taking away children's belief in them, but it would likely be more effective... and lasting. One thing he had certainly learned was that childish beliefs are fickle things, easy to be lost but just as easy to restore, and thus not a factor he could rely onto. Hatred, on the other hand... would it be more lasting? If one child could hate them, would others follow suit if given some... proper motivation?

A clicking sound snapped him from his thoughts, and he realized he had said nothing for several moments. “So you're still there. I thought you were doing that shadow thing again.”

Pitch gave a shark-like smile, safe in the knowledge that the boy could not see it. “I was simply wondering what reason may you have to dislike them that much. Most brats seem to adore them, so you stick out like a sore thumb. May I ask what happ--”

“ _No.”_

The boy's voice was suddenly cold and sharp. Pitch forced himself not to snap at him to _never again_ cut him off like that: the boy just may be the key to his revenge, and in order to know what he may need he had to stay on the brat's good side. For time being.

Taking a mental note to send Nightmares to plague his nights as soon as he knew more about his resentment towards the Guardians and he could actually get his hands on some dream sand without said Nightmares turning on him, he spoke again. “Fine, then. You don't want to speak, I won't ask,” he said agreeably. “Now, I believe we may as well use names. We both introduced ourselves, after all. Didn't we, Zachary?”

Zachary frowned. “So your name is just 'Boogeyman'?”

Oh. Right. “Not really, no. Pitch will do. Pitch Black.”

“Pitch Black? _Really_?”

“Yes, really. What about it?”

“Isn't it kind of... you know...” he made vague gestures in the air, as though trying to find the right word. “Cheesy?”

“What did you expect? Mr. Sunshine?”

Zachary actually chuckled a bit. “Fine. One for you. But what was that thing you said about Nightmares?” he asked, clearly thinking that Pitch's more laid back attitude meant he could allow himself a few questions. Not that he had held back much until that moment.

Pitch almost shuddered at the memory of what he had been through until just... how much time earlier? Half a hour? A hour? “They were trapped in here with me,” he said, not really wanting to dwell on the fact they were literally feeding off _his_ fear. He barely wanted to admit it to himself. “Haven't you met them on your way in? If you got here there must be an opening left somewhere. I thought the Guardians sealed them all when they came here to retrieve the teeth and fairies,” he added bitterly.

“Fairies? Teeth?” Zachary repeated, clearly confused.

“It's... quite the long story,” Pitch said. He didn't truly feel like dwelling in that failure of a plan. And he didn't have to, thankfully, for the boy's attention seemed to have shifted to something else he had said.

“Wait. They _sealed_ you in here?”

“If by that you mean they closed all possible exits with me and the Nightmares still in, then yes,” he replied. Truth to be told, when they had come down there to retrieve the fairies and teeth he was deep within the lair where they did not venture, already mostly trapped in his own mind. He could hear them moving and talking and he had been desperate enough to try calling out, but no scream would leave his mouth: all of it would be confined in his own mind. He couldn't move, couldn't call out; he could only listen and scream internally when the Guardians, assuming the lair empty, had agreed to seal it 'just in case'. It had been the last external event his mind had registered before Nightmares completely took over.

But the boy didn't need to know all of that: he could just tell him that yes, the Guardians had sealed him in. Whether or not that was done on purpose was not truly relevant.

“But why did they do that?”

“I suppose the Dream Team didn't want me around to spread fear. I'm competition for them, you see. You could say they don't quite grasp the concept of fair play.” Not that he did, either, but that was yet another detail the boy didn't need to hear. “Speaking of which, I should thank you for finding an opening. I may be fear itself, but being trapped in perpetual darkness can get quite tiresome. You should know,” he added snidely.

The remark caused exactly the reaction he had hoped for: the boy's posture tensed, his expression hardening. “Yes,” he said, his voice oddly dull.

“Then it appears we have something in common,” Pitch said in his best casual tone. “How ironic: you can be seen, but cannot see. I can see, but almost no one sees me. And of all people would cold free me from this prison it had to be you – someone who can see me and at the same time _cannot_. Do tell me, how long has it been since the Guardians imprisoned me here? Did your friend tell you when it happened?”

Zachary frowned in through. “Six years,” he finally said. “Not much time before... before I moved here. So you've been trapped here all this time?”

“Yes.”

He seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking again. “So, if you were out five years ago, you could have... made people scared?”

“Children, more accurately. Though thanks to the Guardians there was barely any left to believe in me,” he said bitterly. “I suppose that now there's even less left. If not the only, you may be one of the few.”

“But there would have been more fear around if you were out, right? We may have been more easily scared of... of things, right?” he asked. There was a tremor in his voice that Pitch could not quite define. It was not fear, but... something else.

“Yes, children would have known far more fear than they likely do. Certainly more than the Guardians would like. But now that I'm free again... what?” Pitch asked when he realized that the child's expression had twisted into an actual snarl. He said something under his breath that Pitch didn't hear. “What is it? If you want to say something than you should speak rather than mumbling like--”

“NOW IT'S _TOO LATE_!” Zachary shrieked causing Pitch to recoil and step back. His voice echoed in the lair for several moments. Finally, it was Pitch to speak again.

“Are sure you have no intention to tell me what precisely _is_ your problem?” he asked, deadpanned.

Zachary scoffed. “They failed. That's all.”

“Failed? You mean the Guardians? What do you mean by--”

“ _That's all,”_ the boy repeated more forcefully, and Pitch decided not to press the matter further for now. He wouldn't be able to truly make a move for a while: he was weak, needed time to recover and had yet to see if there was anyone left to believe in him – he wasn't optimistic on that, but at least there was that kid, and it was something – so there was no point in trying to force words out of him. He would wait until he trusted him enough to speak of it himself, that was all. He was certain that would happen eventually: he was only a child, after all. Children can be manipulated. They can be made believe almost anything.

And their shared hatred for the Guardians was going to be the key to this one's mind.

“Very well, then. I won't pry,” he said, and smirked when the boy's tense posture relaxed. “Tell me, how _did_ you get in?”

Zachary didn't reply right away: first he turned around and clicked his tongue a few times, then he moved back to the staircase and sat on the lowest step. There was no hesitation whatsoever in his movements, and Pitch had to admit that he did deserve an ounce of respect for being capable of moving so easily in the darkness.

“I was taking a walk in the woods,” Zachary finally explained. “Then, when I put my foot down, the ground just sank under me and I fell down a tunnel. It's up there,” he added, pointing up with his cane to the beginning of the staircase. “I couldn't climb back up without a rope, so I kept going. And then I heard you. By the way, how is this place _made_? I thought it was a cave, but then there are things that feel like bridges and chandeliers.”

“It _is_ a cave. But yes, it's a peculiar one. As a matter of fact, there are bridged and stairs to cross it. As for the things hanging from the ceilings, they're cages.”

“Cages? Why cages?”

“They give the atmosphere a lovely personal touch, of course.”

“Hu-uh. In other words?”

“I lock children who ask too many questions in them.”

“Really?”

“No. But as you probably imagined I don't get many willing guests, so from time to time I need a place to... keep them for a while. So that they don't just go running out. My last guests were the Tooth Fairy's fairies before the Guardians took them back.”

“Why did you bother? Canaries are easier to find. And you don't piss off legends in the process.”

Pitch sighed. “As I mentioned, it's a long story.”

Zachary shrugged. “I have time.”

“Oh, do you?” Pitch asked, raising an eyebrow. “Isn't anyone going to wonder where you are?”

That cased the boy to wince. “Oh. Oops,” he muttered, then gave a sheepish grin. “Right. So, suppose I happened to need a lift outside...”

A low laugh. “It can be arranged. I'd like to take a look around myself. But there is one thing you must promise.”

“What is it?”

Pitch merged with shadows to slither past the boy, then he resumed his physical form to speak from behind him in a low, threatening growl. “Do not tell anyone about me. _Not a soul._ ”

The boy was startled, but still not scared. He turned with a confused frown. “But why? I thought you wanted to be believed in, don't you? I know other kids, and some are very young. If I tell them about you--” he trailed off when Pitch chuckled and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you for the offer. I'd love you to, believe me. But not yet. I'm still weak. I need to measure the powers I have left, to regain strength, and I can allow myself no mistakes. Doing anything that may alert the Guardians of my presence would be one. Should you say anything about this, it may reach the wrong ears – that of one of the Guardians' little friends, for example. Do you think they'd hesitate to seal me in my lair again?” he added. It wasn't true, of course: they hadn't knowingly sealed him in last time and certainly wouldn't knowingly do so now. They were too ridiculously kindhearted to, all of them, and would have only made sure that he would stay weak, never again powerful as he had once been, never again _believed_ in. Anyone who knew the Saccharine Brigade would know that.

But the boy hated the Guardians, so he would believe what _he_ said. It truly was refreshing knowing he was _not_ the hated one, Pitch mused.

As he had anticipated, Zachary seemed to believe him. “Alright. I won't tell anyone,” he said.

Pitch chuckled and removed his hand from his shoulder. “Good boy. I'm glad to see you understand me as well as I understand you. I'm certain you're sick and tired, too, of hearing everyone praising those meddling buffoons. Especially since, as you put it,” he lowered his voice to a poisonous whisper, “they _failed_.”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Zachary warned, standing up again. Pitch raised his hands even though he knew fully well that the boy couldn't see him.

“Then we won't. Now, about that lift...” he smirked, then reached out to seize the boy and, before he could even react, they had both merged with the darkness all around them.

 

* * *

 

“Don't you _ever_ do that again!”

There was a low laugh as Zachary pushed himself back on his feet. “It was the quickest way out, boy.”

“I wasn't in a hurry,” Zachary muttered before trying to regain bearing of his surroundings. He could hear the sound of birds and rustling leaves and voices coming from somewhere on his right, so he knew he was back in the woods. He picked up his cane and clicked his tongue, but there was no trace of Pitch around him. Still, he had just spoken.

“Pitch?” he called out. “Are you doing the shadow thing again?”

“Yes. I'd rather not stay in direct sunlight.”

“Oh. So you're kinda like a vampire,” Zachary stated.

A moment of silence, then Pitch spoke slowly. “I suppose that depends on what vampire you're thinking of,” he said.

“Dracula?”

There was a sigh that sounded suspiciously close to one of relief. “ _Thank_ you,” Pitch muttered.

Zachary wasn't sure what Pitch had feared he would say, but he decided not to dwell on it. “Hey, is it true he was inspired by a real guy?”

“By Vlad Tepes, yes. I happened to meet him, a long time ago. I could admire his talent for striking fear in every heart, but impaling people was never my style.”

“Messy?”

“ _Very.”_

“And what about Erzsébet Báthory?”

“Same thing. Great talent, but too much senseless slaughter. People tend to stop being terrified when they're dead. I lost interest in her activities quickly enough.”

“Hu-uh. And what about--”

“Zach!”

A little girl's voice, one Zachary knew very well, caused him to trail off. He turned to the direction it came from. “I have to go,” he said, trying not to move his lips. “Can I be back to visit? I have a lot of stuff to ask.”

A chuckle. “You can visit any moment. You know the way. Just remember – don't tell _anyone_ ,” was the reply, and then Pitch said nothing more.

Zachary faced the direction the girls' voice had come from and smiled. “Hi, Sophie. What are you doing here?”

“I was at the lake, but then saw a squirrel and tried to follow. But I lost it,” Sophie Bennett said with a sigh. “What about you? Practicing your bat-powers?”

“More or less,” Zachary said with a laugh. Sophie was just one year younger and almost nothing like him in personality or looks – he remembered from when they were little that she had blonde hair and green eyes and rosy cheeks – but they got along pretty well. A few adults would crack jokes about sunshine and storm clouds when they walked by; Sophie found it amusing, and with time it had stopped bothering him as well.

“How did it go?”

Zachary shrugged and began walking away. The farther he got her from Pitch's lair, he thought, the better. “Fine. Didn't hit any tree.”

“Hey, you _never_ hit anything. You're good. I try to close my eyes and do that sometimes, and I always bump in stuff. Or trip. Last time it was on Jamie's laundry. Mom says he shouldn't leave it around his room like that, but he does anyway,” she informed him, walking – no, it was more like skipping – by his side. “One time he also left his skateboard in the living room, and... wait, you're hurt!” she exclaimed with a gasp.

Zachary frowned. “Uh?” was all he uttered as she took his arm to, he supposed, take a look at it. “What is it?”

“You have a cut near your elbow! It's huge!”

Too used to Sophie's dramatics to just take her word for it, Zachary reached to touch his arm. There was a cut, yes, but it was small and with very little blood. He had probably just scraped it against one of the stone walls as he fell down the hole and into Pitch's lair. “It's nothing. I'll just put a band-aid on it when I'm home.”

“Nope! That's not enough!” Sophie exclaimed, predictably enough. She wanted to be a doctor when she grew up, and she never lost a chance to practice. “You'll need peroxide! And then bandages!”

“Look, I'm sure I can just--”

“Peroxide! Bandages! And... and more bandages!”

Zachary sighed, knowing better than arguing further. “As long as you don't turn me into a mummy,” he said, and then just let her talk of how she was going to fix his arm without really listening, wondering if he could manage to sneak out to visit Pitch the following afternoon.

Neither him nor Sophie could know that something was watching them, staring at their retreating backs through the leaves with cold, _hungry_ eyes.

Something that was not human.

Something that was not Pitch.

 

* * *

 

“Environmental scientists all over Europe are at a loss. Still no explanation has been found for the exceptional phenomena...”

Jack Frost smirked at the words coming from the TV and tore himself away from the window, flying up to the roof to admire his handiwork. There was snow everywhere, with children playing in it and having fun. They spent a lot less time than adults did wondering about _how_ could there be snow so close to summer, but that was what he liked about them: they only saw a chance to have fun and jumped at it right away.

And, Jack hoped, _he_ could jump on the chance to get some kids there believe in him as well. He had been a Guardian for six years now and he had a good handful of believers of his own, but he was still a small thing compared to those who believed in North, Sandy, Tooth or Bunnymund: after all, they all had more centuries and traditions on their side. But hey, no matter: he had time to fix that, and the number of his believers kept growing. Making them believe in him was _fun,_ and every time he succeeded it was a great pay-off.

Jack looked down to see a snow fight going on. Maybe he could join in, just to make things even more fun. He gripped his staff tighter, bracing himself to jump down the roof and join in, then...

_Guardians!_

“Whoa!”

Jack blinked at the voice that suddenly filled his mind – North's – and immediately looked up. But the sky was filled with snow clouds, so he opted to jump upwards and ride the wind until he was past the clouds, with the blue sky above him and the whiteness far below him. _Then_ he looked toward the North Pole and there it was, beautiful and unmistakable. Aurora Borealis.

North was calling. 


	4. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Guardians realize something isn't quite right, and Pitch gives a speech about fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a bit to update. I have a few other WIPs going on, so I likely won't be able to update as often as I did before for a while. Likely once every two weeks or so.
> 
> As for the location of Pitch's lair, I'm not sure how canon it is: some say it is, some say it's not. I went with it anyway because someone from Dreamworks commented on how they were inspired by Venice to create Pitch's lair.

“Zachary! What happened to your arm?”

Zachary smirked a little at his father's worried tone when he stepped into the house. He was referring to his almost entirely bandaged arm, of course. “Nothing, dad. I just scraped against a tree, and Sophie went overboard treating it. She also tried to make me use a sling. Again”

“Oh. I see,” his father said with a chuckle, all worry gone. He was sitting on his usual armchair, and Zachary could hear the noise of a newspaper page being turned. “Did she actually have a sling around the house?”

“Nope. She tried to take one of her mother's scarves to make one. Where are mom and Tim?” he asked, more to change subject – he didn't want his father to ask anything more about his afternoon – than because he didn't know both answers.

“Timothy is at the lake with some friends, and mom is still at work. She should be here soon, though. Which reminds me I should start getting dinner done,” his father added, putting away the newspaper. Zachary could hear the sound of creaking boards as he stood. “Why don't you go upstairs to get that mile of bandages off your arm?” he added, once again sounding amused.

“Good plan,” Zachary muttered. It was exactly fourteen steps to the top of the stairs, and he went to his room without need for echolocation: at least in his own house he knew exactly where everything was. The door was open, of course – because he had left it open and they always left his door the way he had left it – but he closed it behind himself as soon as he was in. He sat on the bed and began unwrapping the bandages, but most of his attention was elsewhere: all he could think of was what had happened that afternoon.

Truth to be told, he had been a bit disappointed that he couldn't tell anyone about it; for a moment he had really, really wanted to tell Sophie. But Pitch had a point: if he spoke, the Guardians would know and could decide to seal him again. Even if Sophie promised not to tell anyone, she just wasn't one who could keep a secret for long – that, and she was all about the Easter Bunny for some reason, so she would likely tell him.

Zachary grimaced at the memory of when she had come to visit him with a chocolate egg only weeks after the accident that took his sight, telling him that 'the bunny was sorry'. He remembered yelling for her to go away and take the egg with her, to tell the bunny that he didn't care if he was sorry, that it was all his fault and that he should just leave him _alone_. She had cried and he remembered being sorry about that and trying to apologize, but in the end he was crying too hard to speak, too. When Timothy and Jamie had heard them and gotten in the room as well he and Sophie were huddled together, both of them weeping, and their brothers had decided to leave them alone.

Zachary was still almost ridiculously grateful to both of them for that. He had needed to cry.

Sophie had kept visiting him afterward, as had her brother Jamie and several other kids, but she had never mentioned the Easter Bunny again. Not in his presence, at least. As Jamie had never mentioned Jack Frost to him, and other kids never spoke of any of the Guardians when he was there. Zachary didn't know if Tim and Jamie had anything to do with it, if they had explained the others it wasn't a subject Zachary would want to hear about, but the fact still stood that no one had ever mentioned any of the Guardians in his presence. Yet another thing he was thankful for. If only he could get rid of the _happy_ dreams Sandman kept sending, he thought bitterly, everything would be just peachy. Couldn’t a creature that was supposedly centuries and centuries old begin to imagine that maybe, just _maybe_ last thing he needed where happy dreams where he could see again before he woke up and opened his eyes to _nothing_? Apparently not.

Zachary finally finished unwrapping the bandages and threw them aside, the he let himself fall on his back on the mattress and drew in a deep breath. There was no point in following that line of thought, he told himself, because he knew exactly where it would lead – wondering if his accident could have been avoided hadn't the Guardians failed to look out for him as they were supposed to... and now, _now_ he would also wonder if it could have been avoided had Pitch not been trapped. Had there been more fear in him, in _everyone_. He remembered not being scared at all while climbing the tree, not feeling any fear even when he first heard that creaking noise. If only it had been enough to scare him into going back...!

“Zach!”

Zachary sat up on the mattress when Timothy called out for him, opening the door with a bang. He had never been one to knock, especially when excited. As he was now.

“What is it?”

“I caught a fish!” Timothy proclaimed proudly. “Big as your arm! Dad says he's gonna cook it for dinner!”

Truth to be told, Zachary didn't really care about that: he just wanted to be alone for a bit to ponder over what had happened that afternoon. But he didn't want Tim to think anything was wrong, so he pasted a smile on his face and pretended to be interested in his brother's epic – and likely very embellished – tale on how he had caught himself the American cousin of the Loch Ness monster.

All while thinking of an excuse he could use to get out alone the following day as well.

 

* * *

 

If asked what the best things in those meetings was, Jack wouldn't have hesitated one moment to reply. As far as he was concerned, the quarrels between North and Bunnymund won by a long shot.

“North, I swear – I _swear_ – that if this is about your belly again...!”

“Bunny, Bunny. You know my belly is always right. It was last time, was it not? Besides, Easter was last month. Plenty of time for you to waste!”

“But not for us,” Tooth pointed out, waving gesturing to herself and then Sandy. “In case you didn't notice, Sandy and I--”

Jack cleared his throat, and Tooth quickly caught herself. “I mean, in case you didn't notice the three of us work around the clock while you have one holiday you get all year to prepare. So no time to waste on _this_ side.”

Bunny gave a slight snort and turned to Jack with a lopsided smirk. “You think? Odd, I thought Jack's point was exactly that of wasting time,” he pointed out. Jack smirked back and poked him with his staff, causing him to yelp at the freezing touch.

“It's called _fun_ , Bunny. Unproductive by definition, but never wasted time,” he pointed out, then he flung the staff over his shoulder and glanced at North. “So, what's the deal?” he asked, taking few steps forward and almost stumbling on an elf in the process. After the ordeal that had led to him becoming a Guardian, there had been no official reunion such as that one: only informal ones, and none of them so sudden. If North had called them there, then there _had_ to be something off.

“The children,” North said, gesturing for the globe. Jack couldn't say he noticed anything out of the ordinary, really: the lights marking each child who believed in at least one of them shone brightly as last time he had seen them.

And, apparently, he wasn't the only one to think so.

“What about them?” Bunnymund asked, crossing his arms. “Everything looks fine to me. Tooth?”

Tooth flew around it a couple of times as though to make sure of something, but then nodded and landed. “Same here. I can't see anything out of the ordinary. Sandy, do you... you do?” she asked when Sandman began gesturing quickly, sand figures forming above his head in rapid successions. Several small stick figures, maybe a dozen, showed up – then two of them disappeared, leaving only ten.

North laughed. “See? It's just as Sandy says. More children than usual stopped believing in the Guardians lately. Of course, it happens often,” he added as soon as he saw Bunnymund opening his mouth to speak. “It's life, yes? Children grow up, and forget. Not all of them, but most do. But for every child who grows, there is usually one who first hears of us and starts believing. But this,” he added, gesturing to the globe again, “this is different.”

Jack looked back at the globe. The small lights shining on it were still so, so many. “Are you sure it's not just a coincidence? There are still so many lights. Not sure how you keep track of them all, really.”

North shrugged and reached down to pat his belly, but Bunnymund spoke before he could.

“And don't tell us your belly told you, mate,” he warned.

“It was right last time, wasn't I?” North countered, and Bunnymund seemed to have no retort to that. “Besides, after that happened with Pitch I paid closer attention to the globe. Every day I watched, and good thing I did. You're right, it's a small change and I wouldn't have noticed otherwise. But it's still a change that's unaccounted for. And things that start small can get big. Like a snowball running down the side of a cliff and turning into something truly big.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “When did this start being about me?” he asked, causing Bunnymund to give a snort that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle and give him a light shove. Or at least what _he_ thought of as a light shove, which still was enough to make Jack almost topple backwards.

“Hey!”

“Not now, boys,” Tooth said with a sigh. “North, do you really thing something may be up?”

North nodded gravely. “I wouldn't have called you here if I didn't. Perhaps it's coincidence, perhaps not. But still better keeping one's eyes peeled, yes?”

Sandy looked up at North, then sand swirled above his head to form a silhouette that Jack recognized immediately – Pitch's. That alone was enough to make him sober up. Then the silhouette vanished, replaced by a question mark.

_Do you think it's him?_

Jack gripped his staff more tightly and looked up to North was well. He was relieved to see him shaking his head. “No, don't think so.”

“Why not?” Bunnymund asked. “If something is really up and more and more children are stopping believing in us... it sounds like Pitch's doing, mate.”

“It's only been six years, Bunny. Last time he tried to challenge us he needed centuries to get his plan in motion. He had time to carry it out, to make himself stronger by corrupting dream sand. But this time? Not likely it's him, no. We beat him, and he was weak again. Six years wouldn't be enough to regain nearly enough power to cause a such thing to happen. He's probably still in the shadows somewhere, but not a threat. Doubt anyone sees him, or... Jack?” he called out with a small frown, causing Jack to recoil.

“Uh?” he muttered, looking around to see the others were looking at him as well. He quickly caught himself and shrugged. “Nothing. Got distracted, sorry,” he said, hoping they would think nothing of it. A truthful answer would have required him to tell them about his conversation with Pitch in Antarctica, when the Boogeyman had tried to get him on his side. A conversation they knew nothing of.

_No? I don’t know what it’s like to be cast out? To not be believed in? To long for... a family._

Jack bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his grin in place and hoping he was being convincing. He didn't want to have to tell them about those moments, as he didn't want to admit that he was thinking back of what it did feel like, being unseen and unheard by everyone everywhere he went and feeling like a piece of him had _died_ every time someone walked right through him...

_All those years in the shadows I thought, no one else knows what this feels like. But now I see I was wrong. We don't have to be alone, Jack!_

… and he _really_ didn't want to explain that he had been thinking back of Pitch's expression when Jamie had ran through him, of how horrified and pained he had looked, and wondering if that was the way he had looked like every time that had happened to him.

Thankfully, everyone seemed to believe his explanation right away; not a surprise, since he did tend to get distracted easily when the talk got really serious. Sandy was the only one to look at him thoughtfully for a few more moments, as though still doubtful, but he took his attention from him when Tooth spoke up. Jack breathed a little more easily and quickly shoved the thought of whatever pity or connection he may have felt for Pitch in the back of his mind. He could not accept his offer, and Pitch had bid farewell to any chance for compassion the moment he had threatened to crush Baby Tooth in his fist.

“So you're saying that we just have to keep en eye out?” Tooth was asking. North nodded.

“Yes. We don't know what's wrong, only that something _is_ up.”

“So this meeting was just a heads up?” Jack asked.

“You could have just sent a note,” Bunnymund grumbled.

Tooth raised an eyebrow. “Oh, listen to you. You are not the one who should be working right now, Bunny. Right, Sandy? Sandy?”

Jack turned to see that Sandy was still looking up at the globe, a rather serious look on his face. Then he turned to North, and the sand above his head shifted into the image of an eye.

“Exactly. Keep your eyes peeled and let me know if you see anything that looks even a little suspicious. I will call you back if this keeps up,” he added, gesturing to the globe. “Even though I truly hope this is indeed only a false alarm.”

It was not.

 

* * *

 

It was almost dawn when Pitch returned to his lair, and certainly not in his best mood. The time he had spent outside had done nothing but confirm what he already knew: he was invisible to everyone, and couldn't even startle some mangy stray dog. It was nothing he hadn't grown accustomed to since the end of the Dark Age, but he hated the thought he was back to the start – or even worse than how he had started off – after being so close to making everyone believe in him once more. Centuries of work... all for naught. He was still unseen, once again weak and, as the cherry on top, he still didn't dare to try looking for dreams he could turn into nightmares; last thing he wanted was to have Nightmare turning on him again to feed off his fear.

The situation made him feel so worn out and defeated that not even the thought there was one child who could – more or less – see him did little to help. For a short while he busied himself reopening a few of the tunnels that led out of the lair to various parts of the world, to give himself at least something to do and not think too much.

He couldn't even find it in himself to think of the embryo of a plan that had begun to form in his mind when he had realized that the boy hated the Guardians, couldn't try to think of how that could be used at his advantage. He had been defeated, he had stayed six years at the mercy of the Nightmares, had just awakened to find out he was once more weak and nearly powerless – so the moment he felt like he had reopened enough passages, enough to grant him some escape routes should the Guardians show up for whatever reason, he only wanted to do one thing.

_Rest._

And he did rest for a several, blissful hours of dreamless sleep. No dreams, no nightmares: only nothingness he was all too willing to let himself fall into for a time. It was pure bliss.

At least until a certain someone thought it fitting to awaken him by poking at him with a stick. Hard.

“ _Ow!”_

The yelp that left him was by far not the most dignified sound he had ever uttered and certainly not one a child would associate with the Boogeyman, but at the moment he was beyond caring. He sat up, a hand reaching to rub this side, and glared up at the boy standing above him. He could see he was snickering. “What was _this_ about?” he snapped. And to think, he mused bitterly, that once he frighten children with just a glare. Not that this one could _see_ him glaring.

Zachary shrugged. “I didn't know if you were sleeping or unconscious again, so I poked you,” he said, tapping his cane on the ground lightly. “So, were you sleeping? I didn't know you could sleep. Do all legends sleep?”

Pitch glared uselessly at him before standing at full height above him – which had obviously no effect as well. “And was using your stick absolutely necessary?” he asked coldly.

“Hey, last time I tried to shake you you tried to strangle me, remember?”

“Maybe I should have gone through with that,” Pitch muttered, but he didn't truly mean it. Not because he thought the world would miss an annoying brat, but because he seemed to be – much to his chagrin – the only child left to believe in him. “Did you fall through the hole again?”

“I climbed down,” was the reply. He sounded somewhat proud. “I brought some rope my father kept in the garage, tied one end to a tree and climbed down. I'm sure I can climb back up the same way. It's not a long way up.”

That statement caused Pitch to chuckle. What an ignorant little brat, he thought. “Oh, you think so?” he asked, and could see confusion creasing the boy's features.

“I know it is. I mean, I fell down there once and just climbed down, so--”

“Where do you think we are?” Pitch cut him off. “Where do you think this lair is?”

Zachary frowned. “I'd say we're under the woods near Burgess, but I guess that would be the wrong answer. Is it?”

“Precisely. What you've been passing through, boy, is not a mere _hole_. It's a passage, like others I have scattered across the globe. What seems like a short fall or climb to you can actually take you hundreds of miles away, from the entrance to the lair.”

Zachary seemed taken aback. Pitch had to admit he took some satisfaction upon seeing his stunned expression. “But how is that possible?”

“Magic. Obviously.”

“That doesn't sound _obvious_ at all.”

“You're talking to the Boogeyman. Ponder over it and then tell me again that you expect an explanation that has nothing to do with magic.”

The boy seemed to ponder that for a few moments. “Good point,” he finally said. “Then where are we? Where is the lair exactly?”

Pitch looked up the the lair's ceiling, from which beams of otherworldly light shone weakly despite the lack of openings; the boy certainly would have found it useful hadn't he been completely blind. “We're deep beneath Venice,” he finally answered. Zachary's reaction was more or less what he had been expecting.

“Venice? Really?” he asked, wonder plain in his voice. Pitch tried to ignore the fact it wasn't _wonder_ he was supposed to bring – he truly didn't want to imagine how much that would amuse North, damn him – and nodded. Not that it served much of a purpose.

“Really. Why should I lie?”

“But if we're under Venice, shouldn't the place be, like, flooded?”

“Magic.”

“But--”

“Magic. Whatever your doubts are – _magic_.”

“Fine, fine. I get it,” he said, then he smiled. He had seated himself on as step while they talked, but now he jumped on his feet. “Can we go?” he asked eagerly.

Pitch blinked. “Go?”

“You can't tell me we're beneath Venice and then don't let me go up there!”

“I believe I _can_.”

“C'mon!”

“I'm no tour guide. Bother someone else to visit it.”

“But it would take a minute!”

“I said _no_.”

Zachary puffed out his cheeks in frustration. “C'mon! It's not like you've got anything better to do!”

Pitch knew those words meant nothing, that it was the frustrated whining of a disappointed brat – but they still rang true, and being reminded like that by a mere human child cut deeper than Pitch would later be willing to admit even to himself. He clenched his teeth, anger burning like an ulcer deep in his gut. “Why would you want to go? It's not like you'd enjoy the views,” he snapped back, and the fury turned into a brief moment of triumph when the boy reared back as though he had just been physically hit. But in turn, the triumph was quick to turn into worry when the child's pale face twisted in anger, his grip on the can tightening and his whole body stiffening. Insufferable as he could be, the brat was currently the only mortal aware of his existence and a possible key to get back to the Guardians. In his weakened state, he simply couldn't allow himself the luxury of driving him away.

The thought made Pitch want to kick a fairy.

“Alright, alright. That was uncalled for,” he said quickly, lifting his hands in yet another rather useless gesture. “I'm sorry. Yesterday wasn't my best night.”

Zachary anger was still there, sure enough, but when he spoke it was in check. Mostly. “What happened?”

“What you can imagine. Nobody could see me,” Pitch said, and dropped his arms with a sight that was actually not calculated: the thought made him feel genuinely tired, and emptied. “I don't think you could understand. You certainly cannot know what it feels like when everyone walks right through you and no one even hears you even if you scream,” he added bitterly, glancing down. No, he couldn't understand; no one but Jack Frost could.

Thinking back of Jack Frost caused Pitch to scowl. He had thought he would understand, thought he could see that he was more similar to him than he could ever be to to the Guardians, and when he had spoken to him in Antarctica he had gone as far as allowing him to see how deeply being unseen and cast out had affected. He had allowed him to see the wound, had made himself vulnerable – and yet he had been rejected. The one being who could understand him had preferred to return to the Guardians rather than taking his side.

It had hurt more than he had been willing to admit, and he had been quick to turn that hurt into anger. But it hadn't been enough. Somehow Jack Frost could rise again, as could the Guardians, and he had fallen. Again.

“What is it like?”

Pitch looked up at the boy. Anger had almost entirely faded from his voice and expression, and he was once again sitting one a stone step. He just sat there and waited for an answer that, to his own surprise, Pitch found himself giving. “For me – for anyone like me – being believed in is a necessity. While I don't fade as the Guardians do once all belief is gone, it makes me weak because it deprives me of my purpose. I'm in this wretched word to bring fear, and if I can't do that then what am I here for?” he asked bitterly. “I can't scare people who don't believe in me. I was reduced to hiding under beds and making a few nightmares when I got a chance. That was all. No belief also meant no one could see me, and nothing is lonely as that. No matter what you do, no one knows you're there. They can't see you, can't hear you, can't touch you. Every time someone walks through me it feels like a blade passed through my chest, and for several moments your lungs refuse to draw in air and the heart just doesn't seem to be beating. And for several minutes it's like something is missing, as if by passing through me they took away a part of myself, like a limb. In a way they did, because belief is such an important part of what a legend is that losing it is like--” he trailed off, suddenly realizing that he had maybe spoken too much. He had almost forgotten he was talking to the boy rather than to himself; things that can happen when you're more used to monologues than you are to conversations.

For a few moments Zachary didn't say anything: he just kept still, empty and unseeing black eyes locked on him. Pitch stared at them and found himself thinking that, if anything, the boy could tell what losing an important part of himself was like. It was not quite the same thing, but...

He sighed and glanced upwards, to the lair's ceiling. “I grow tired of talking about this. Some fresh air is in order. Venice should be lovely this time of the year,” he finally said.

Zachary's grim expression turned into surprise. “What, really?” he asked, jumping on his feet.

“If you don't mind the transportation means.”

He made a face. “Aww, man. The shadow thing again?”

“Take it or leave it, boy.”

“Fine, fine. I take it,” Zachary said quickly, and held out his hand. Pitch paused for a moment, wondering when last time a child had reached out for him had been – easy answer: there hadn't been a previous time – then he reached back and grabbed the boy's wrist.

The next moment they had both merged with the black shadows around them, and they were gone.

 

* * *

 

He was under the sun.

He couldn't see it, of course, but he could feel the sunlight on his skin just fine, as he could hear the sound of people all around him – walking, chattering, laughing. He clicked his tongue a few times, just enough to realize he was in a large, rather crowded space. The hair was hot and damp.

“Where are we?” he asked quietly, hoping Pitch was there to answer. And the answer came from behind him.

“In Venice, as you asked. No, don't turn,” Pitch added as he swirled around to face him. “You'd only draw attention on yourself. They can't see me, and couldn't even if by chance they happened to believe in me.”

“But where in Venice? And where _are_ you?” Zach asked quietly, trying not to move his lips too much.

“In the shadow, of course. Namely, in _your_ shadow. Walk where you wish, I'll follow. As for where we are, this is St. Mark's Square. Walk a little on your left. There is a column there. Can you feel it with echolocation?”

Zachary did as he said and clicked his tongue a few times. Sure enough, there it was – a column right in front of him. He walked up to it. “What about this column?”

“It's one of the two in the square, right in front of the St. Mark's basilica. Move ahead. Yes, that way... a little more. Stop. You're standing between the two columns, facing the church. Did you hear of its clock tower?”

“Yeah. Can you, uh...” Zachary hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Can you describe it?”

He could, and he did a lot more than just that. Once he was done describing the bell, the statues, the engravings, the gallery and the clock itself, Pitch began going on about the place's history. He went on for so long that it wasn't hard to guess he had been there when most of it had happened, and that he was especially fond on that place. So much for not being a tour guide, Zachary thought with some amusement, and decided to ask before he could start boring him to tears with _too_ many details.

“What's so special about this place?”

His question trailed Pitch off in the middle of a sentence, and there was a moment of silence before Pitch chuckled. “Do you truly want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. You know, to this day Venetians have a peculiar way to threaten someone with death, jokingly or not. They tell them they'll 'show them the hours'.”

Show them the hours? That was a weird way to threaten alright. “But why?”

“The spot you're standing onto is where executions once took place. Right between the two columns, facing the clock tower – which was usually the last thing the victim would ever see.”

“Oh, wow,” Zachary murmured. Was he really standing on the same spot where men and women had died a long time ago? That was a morbid thought, but still... it was kinda cool. “And they were afraid?”

Another chuckle, darker than the previous one; this time Zachary could feel his hair standing on end. “Yes. Oh, yes. Nothing frightens as much as the knowledge death is breathing down your neck.”

Zachary scoffed. “Isn't that dumb?”

“Dumb?” Pitch repeated as though he couldn't believe his ears. Or whatever he listened with when he was pure shadow anyway.

“Well, not really. If it's going to hurt, there's a point. But if death is something that has to happen anyway, what's the point of being scared of it in general?”

Pitch scoffed. “People are under the impression that not fearing death proves a man's bravery or wisdom. You think so as well, don't you? Well, it only proves their foolishness. Death is the great unknown; something very unwise not to fear in some measure, for it can hide anything. Much like darkness,” he added.

“Can't you just get over the fact some people are just brave enough not to be scared?”

“Being scared of nothing is not bravery. It's foolishness,” Pitch all but snapped, and Zachary realized he had hit a raw nerve. “Do you truly believe that having no fear is the same as being brave? You know nothing, boy. _Nothing_.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bravery is not lack of fear. Bravery is _overcoming_ fears, and you cannot overcome something that isn't there. There is no bravery without fear – only foolishness.”

Zachary frowned. “So you mean that to be brave, one _must_ be afraid?”

“At least to some degree, yes. The greater the fear, the more bravery is needed to overcome it. And not only that – fear has always been vital to survival. It has everything to do with self-conservation. Fear has kept humanity safe since the dawn of its existence; it still does, or at least it should. Fear is what allows you to tell what risks are worth taking and what risks are just foolish.”

Those words brought back a memory that never failed to make Zachary scowl: that of a little boy climbing up a branch to grab an _egg_ , uncaring of the danger and heedless even of the ominous creaking noise the branch made several moments before breaking. He tried to push it aside. “But what does that kind of thing have to do with hiding under beds and nightmares? Or making people afraid of everything? It's not really the same thing as keeping anyone safe,” he said, trying to change subject, and was answered with silence. He frowned. “Pitch? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Pitch replied, but he sounded somewhat distant, as if lost in thought. And Zachary thought he could imagine more or less why.

“So, that's not the _same_ kind of fear, is it? Maybe you went too far. Maybe--”

“Don't pretend you understand _anything_ ,” Pitch hissed, but Zachary could pick up an oddly defensive note in his voice. When you mostly rely on hearing to figure out people's moods and attitude, you can learn to notice things in their voice that most people would miss.

_You went too far, didn't you, Pitch?_

But he didn't say it aloud. Better let the matter drop, at least for now.

“Fear is necessary. _I_ am necessary,” Pitch was saying, but there was less bite in his words than Zachary would have expected. It was as though he was trying to convince himself more than he wanted to convince _him_. “Fear is what allowed humanity to live through its darkest times.”

Zachary thought back of what he had heard of the Middle Ages, of how people were terrified of everything to the point they'd burn people alive out of fear of what they could not understand. That was no good for humanity: it only led to pain and misery and meaningless fear. It had nothing to do with survival instinct or bravery. Nothing. And Pitch had to know it – or had he simply never stopped to think about it?

It wasn't a pleasant thought at all. Still, Zachary knew better than asking now. He didn't want to anger him enough to just leave him there: how would be get back home then? And how would he even begin to explain his parents how could get end up in _Venice_ in less than a couple of hours?

Still, he couldn't completely stop himself. “But doesn't it also hold back from... from doing things? I mean, if Columbus had been afraid of trying to find a way to India, he wouldn't have found America.”

Pitch made a noise that sounded a lot like a snort. “ _Found_ America? Boy, the people who lived there certainly never _lost_ it,” he pointed out.

“Fine, _fine_. Then what about, uh...” he paused for a moment, then, “what about Marco Polo?”

“What about him?”

“He wouldn't have left Venice to travel to the far East if he had been afraid, would he?”

There was a snort of laugh. “Who says he was not afraid? He was, boy. Anyone would have been. He was afraid of the dangers he may encounter, but he still decided to go. As I told you, that's bravery: overcoming fear. Not everyone can do it, but isn't that the point? Would the tales of those travels have impressed everyone so much had it been something ordinary, something anyone could do?”

“But--”

“Va tutto bene, piccolo? Ti sei perso?”

Zachary trailed off when words he couldn't understand reached his ears, and it took him a moment to realize they were addressed to him. He clicked his tongue, and could tell a person – a man, judging by the voice – was crouching in front of him. Oh crud, he thought. Maybe he had noticed him speaking to apparently no one and was wondering what was he doing alone there. Zachary cleared his throat. “I, uh... don't get what you're saying,” he replied nervously.

“Oh, a tourist!” the same voice said in a terribly accented English. “Are you alright, little one? Are you lost? Where are you parents?”

Zachary shook his head. “No, I'm not lost! My, uh, parents are right over there. Buying some birdseed for the pigeons, see?” he added. He knew that place was known, among other things, for the sheer number of pigeons that the tourists often fed – so he could only hope that there were people buying seeds right in that moment, people the man could mistake for his parents. “They told me to wait for them here.”

Thankfully, it seemed to work. “Oh, alright. Just making sure. Hope you're having a nice time,” he said, and, after ruffling Zachary's hair – what made him think he _could_ do that? – he stood and walked away. Zachary released a deep breath.

“That was close,” he murmured, then he swallowed. His mouth felt dry as a desert. “Can we go back? I must look funny, talking to myself. And someone else could wonder.”

“As you wish,” Pitch said, some amusement in his voice. “Walk around the column. Get in the shade.”

“Isn't there another--”

“ _No.”_

“Drat.”

That Shadow Express thing seriously sucked.


	5. Dreams, Nightmares and Worse Things Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pitch creates more Nightmares, something worse lurks in the woods around Burgess and the Guardians get moving.

The two weeks that followed were no less depressing than Pitch's first night of freedom had been.

He was still weak, nearly powerless, and unseen: he had no luck in finding anyone who could see him. He had come across Sandman a couple of times, him and his Dreamsand, but he had hidden in the shadows and had not been noticed. He hated having to hide even from one of the beings that _could_ see him, but he wasn't stupid enough to face any of the Guardians in his weakened state – _especially_ not Sandman. He the distinct feeling that the little guy likely still had a grudge for the one time he had tried to erase him, and wouldn't react kindly to his presence.

So much for happy dreams.

Pitch had more than once considered trying to corrupt the still lingering Dreamsand once Sandman was far enough, but he had not yet been able to go through with it. Oh, he had reached out more than once, his fingers almost touching the bright gold figures floating above some sleeping brat's head... but then he had always pulled back when the memory of his own Nightmares turning on him filled his mind. They had ran after him, and taken him, and dragged him _down_ , and fear had been all he had been able to feel for what had felt like an eternity.

No, he still didn't dare creating more Nightmares. Not until he was stronger, he told himself, not quite wanting to face the fact that, as things were, there was virtually no other way for him to grow stronger in the first place.

Oh, he _had_ found some fear to feed onto: the world could never be completely rid of it. There would always be a child dreading a bad grade in school, a short-tempered parent... or worse. In that very instant, millions of children had to fear for their lives – be it because of war or hunger or sickness – so he could find at least some fear to hang onto. But _that_ was a kind of fear that would leave a sour taste in his mouth, one utterly different from the kind of fear he was all about – fear of the dark and the unknown, not very well-known terrors – and one who could never help him grow strong.

Still, it was all he had and it would have to do. At least for now.

Had Zachary not happened to live in Burgess of all places, he probably would have asked him to tell other children about him already, to make them believe in him; _that_ would grant him the kind of power he needed. But things being as they were, he wouldn't dare. The other Guardians maybe wouldn't notice, since they each had millions of believers, but Jack Frost wouldn't miss anything. The place was special to him, and he was likely to have kept contact with the little brat who simply _wouldn't stop believing_.

Someday, should millions believe in him as well, Jack Frost would probably no longer bother to keep much contact with any of them. But at the moment his own believers just couldn't be that many, not _yet_ , and each of them would be special to him... let alone the little bugger who had first believed in him. No, Pitch had thought bitterly, he couldn't start anything there in Burgess: not with the risk that boy would notice and Jack Frost would know. He wasn't strong enough to face the Guardians, and didn't fancy battling them.

And most of all, he hated to admit to himself, he didn't want to meet Jack Frost again. When they had first met, neither of them was believed in. They were the same, or so Pitch had thought, and he had offered him a role in the new Dark Age he was going to create – he had offered him _understanding_ , and the closest thing to friendship he could possibly give. 

And Jack Frost had rejected him. Jack Frost had defied him. Jack frost had fought him. Jack Frost had _won_. Should they meet, what would he say now? He'd mock him, no doubt. Or maybe, Pitch mused as he recalled the look on Jack's when that Jamie had passed right through Pitch after his defeat, maybe he would pity him.

He couldn't honestly tell which would cut deepest.

“...also, where is it you hide? In the closet or under beds?”

Zachary's voice snapped him from his not precisely bright thoughts. The boy had taken the habit of visiting him often, almost every day. When Pitch had asked if he didn't think anyone could notice he was missing he had just shrugged and said most people didn't notice him when he was there anyway.

“I stay in my room to read. A lot. And I don't talk much,” he had explained, and Pitch had to bit back a scathing retort on how he could have fooled him.

“Wherever there is shadow. Often under beds,” he replied somewhat grudgingly. Sometimes he did wondered what _else_ , other than wanting to know _why_ he hated the Guardians, kept him there to endure the boy's annoying presence. He didn't wonder for long, though, for he already knew the answer: he had missed being acknowledged, being talked and listened to. The boy was not afraid of him as he _should_ be, but at least he could hold a conversation that wouldn't include him drawing out swords on him, or socking in him the jaw, or thrashing him around with sand whips, or throwing boomerangs at him, or try freezing him into a pretty icicle.

Long story short, the Boogeyman was lonely. What a sad joke. Still, he couldn't deny that it wasn't always that bad dealing with at least one mortal who could see him... if not technically seeing him. He was annoying, but it was better than nothing, and someday could turn out to be useful. He only needed his trust, needed him to tell him more of whatever had happened to make him hate the Guardians so much.

“No closets?” Zachary was asking, unaware of his musings.

“I'm no fan of closets,” Pitch said drily. He was no fan on hiding under beds for a few crumbles of fear, either, but the amount of dirty laundry that could – and often was – stuffed in closets was enough to make him decide it was the lesser of two evils.

“Hu-uh,” Zachary muttered. He was sitting on one of the stone steps in Pitch's lair, swinging a leg back and forth, unseeing eyes fixed ahead. “So you do the shadow... thing and crawl out, right? And scare them?”

“That's what I would do if they could _see_ me, yes,” was the bitter reply.

“And you could scare them just like that? Just showing up?”

Pitch chuckled darkly at the memory of what he could once do – make children scream and cry with just his appearance, a whispered 'boo'. “Oh, yes.”

That seemed to interest him. “What do you _look_ like?”

Pitch scoffed a little. Did he really think that fear upon seeing him was simply caused by looks? “Jude Law.”

The confusion on the child's face was priceless. “Who?”

A chuckle. “Some actor, I believe, but don't think about it too much. I was joking.”

“Oh. So what _do_ you look like?” Zachary insisted. When he asked something, Pitch had learned, he wouldn't shut up until he got an answer.

“Would you believe me if I started off with 'unbelievably handsome'?”

“Nope.”

“I'm wounded.”

“You're supposed to be scary!”

“And I _am_ ,” Pitch remarked. “It doesn't mean I can't also look good.”

Zachary snickered. “Someone's vain.”

“I like to think I have _style_ ,” Pitch retorted. “Very much unlike the Guardians.”

The mention of the Guardians was enough to make Zachary's expression sour, which was pretty much what Pitch had been aiming for: he wanted information out of the boy, wanted to know what had _happened_ , and after two weeks spent entertaining that aggravating child he at least hoped he would answer to his questions now. He merged with the shadows and slithered closer to the boy before taking back his physical form.

“I don't mean to pry,” he said, trying to sound as casual as he could, “but I'd lie if I said I haven't wondered what wrong the Guardians may have done to you. How they _failed_ you, as you put it.”

Zachary scowled, much like last time he had dared to ask, but this time the scowl wasn't directed at him. “Everyone keeps saying it was no one's fault,” he said bitterly. “That they're not to blame.”

Pitch smiled and sat next to him, then he reached to put a hand around the child's shoulders. “But I know better than that. _We_ know better than that. I'll believe you,” he said. “I'll understand.”

 _They never really believed in you. I was just trying to show you that. But_ I _understand._

The boy nodded, and didn't try to shake his arm off. “I... wasn't always blind,” he muttered.

Pitch blinked in surprise. “No? And to think you move in the dark so well. I could have sworn you were born into it,” he mused aloud. “What happened?”

Zachary swallowed before speaking again. “I was four,” he finally said. “It was Easter Sunday. We were having an egg hunt. I saw an egg on top of a tree, and... and... it shouldn't have been there! There should have been no egg on top of a _tree_!” he exclaimed, his voice shaking with anger.

Pitch had to admit that sounded awfully unsafe. He gave the boy's shoulders a squeeze. “So you tried to climb up, didn't you?” he asked. He was starting to see where that was heading.

“Yes,” Zachary said, his voice strained. Pitch noticed he was clutching his cane so tight that his knuckles were turning as white as the cane itself. “I was not afraid. I should have been. The branch was creaking, but I didn't care, and I kept going for the egg. But then...” he paused, and fell silent. Still, Pitch didn't need him to say anything more.

“You fell,” he finished quietly. He could imagine the scene well, so well: a child reaching out for a bright, colored egg – and then all of a sudden he was falling down, down, _down_ , and sunlight faded for good, only leaving eternal darkness behind. It was the stuff nightmares were made of, quite literally... only that it had been for real: there had been no waking up in his bed with a gasp, no small nervous laugh upon realizing it had been a nightmare, no relief. It had been _real_.

And Bunnymund, the Easter Bunny, the _Guardian_ , had not been there to save him. No Guardian had been: no Bunnymund, no North, no Sandman, no Toothiana... and no Jack Frost.

“Yes,” Zachary was saying. “I hit my head. When I woke up again I couldn't see anything anymore. And then everyone was there saying that it was _no one's_ fault,” he added with something close to a snarl.

And you wanted to blame someone, Pitch thought. Well, it worked for him, didn't it? Oh yes. No reason to try making the boy change his mind, after all. No reason to tell him that not even the Guardians could protect all children from anything. He hated them, so let him keep hating: Pitch knew what being hated was like, but they... they had _no idea_. 

But perhaps someday they'd find out. Oh, how he hoped they would.

“Yes, typical of _them_ ,” Pitch finally said. “They claim they're here to protect children, and yet... well, look how well they do their job,” he added with a sigh. “I'm sorry it happened to you, Zachary.”

The boy was still scowling, unseeing eyes fixed on the ground. “And then Sophie came to visit with an egg, telling me that 'the bunny was sorry'. The bunny was _sorry_! Like I _care_!” he almost cried out. “I don't care! I don't want his eggs, and I don't want presents, I don't want quarters, I don't want snow, I don't want Sandman's dreams! He keeps sending them, and I never can tell they're not real, and then I wake up--” Zachary suddenly trailed off, as though a sudden realization had hit him. He lifted his head. “Wait.”

“Wait... what?”

“The Dreamsand! I forgot!”

Pitch blinked. “You forgot... what?”

“You told me something about it once,” Zachary said, tilting his head up to him in a rather useless gesture. “You said that you could corrupt it, right? Turn it into nightmares.”

“It's an useful skill I developed in some time, yes. What about it?”

“You could use it, then! You could turn the Dreamsand into... into something else, and take it, right? You could keep it away from me so that I don't get more dreams, right?” he asked excitedly, jumping on his feet. Pitch blinked at him for a few moments before he spoke.

“Wait. Wait just a minute. You are asking me – allow me to reiterate, you're asking the the Boogeyman – to keep nice dreams away. Is that it? Are we on the same page?”

“Yes!”

“But... why?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Zachary scowled. “Because every time I have these dreams where everything is alright. And I can't _tell_ I'm dreaming, and I think everything is fine. But then I wake up and it takes me a full minute to realize it because _I can't see anything_!” he shrieked, his voice resounding loudly in the lair.

Pitch grimaced at the shriek, but chose not to complain. “I see,” he said, and he did: the boy had a point, after all. And why not do as he asked? He had hesitated until then, taking some time, but it was clear he wasn't going to grow any stronger as things were and he _would_ have to try his hand at creating a Nightmare sooner or later. Why not do it now and gain himself some gratitude from the brat while he was at it? The information he had to give him didn't seem to be _so_ useful in the end, but he still was the only child aware of his presence and there was no saying whether or not he could be useful to him someday; belief had been the key to the Guardians' victory last time they had faced, after all, and he had to cling to whatever little belief there was for him.

“So? Can you do that?”

Pitch sighed. “I can't grant you I'll manage to fully control it. Once I corrupt Dreamsand, it can go two ways: the Nightmare will either recognize me as its master and follow me, leaving you in a dreamless sleep, or it will attack you.” Or _him_ , but he wasn't going to say that aloud. “In which case you'd get a nightmare. Is it a risk you're willing to take?”

Zachary shrugged. “A nightmare never killed anyone,” he said, and Pitch decided not to correct him on that. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“The Nightmares turning on you. You told me that happened last time. Are you willing to risk it?” Zachary asked seriously, and Pitch knew in that moment that if he said that no, he was not, the boy wouldn't insist. He hesitated for just a moment before sighing again.

“I'll have to try sooner or later,” he found himself replying, knowing that if he didn't make himself try he may just never gather the courage to do it. He had to _try_. 

Zachary nodded. “Fine. And if they attack you, I'll wake you up again. If you don't try to strangle me again. Deal?”

Pitch found himself smiling faintly. “Deal.”

 

* * *

 

While sleeping, Pitch had mused more than once, children look so wonderfully _vulnerable_.

Oh, they always are, of course; some more than others, but in the end they're nothing but vulnerable little things. They can put up a tough front, but cannot hold it up in their sleep. When they close their eyes and sleep their features soften, and the mask slips off. Pitch should know: he has seen so many sleeping children in his long existence, has caused so many of them to toss and turn and wake up screaming.

Zachary made no exception: he looked even smaller than he actually was under the covers, and younger, almost sickly pale and utterly defenseless. Hardly what he seemed to be when awake, even though Pitch could tell he was quieter than most children he had seen. Oh, he would talk and ask questions to him, but sometimes he'd fall silent and talk no more, and after following him home and seeing him around his family he could tell he was an overall quiet boy. Quieter than most, more pensive... more driven, perhaps, more focused, though he couldn't quite tell on _what_. 

Not that it mattered, of course, but he had been waiting for Dreamsand to show up for hours; the wait was getting tiresome and he was running out of thoughts to keep his mind busy. He was starting to think that Sandman wouldn't show up there that night, and had almost managed to convince himself it was for the best – maybe he wasn't ready to create and control a Nightmare, not yet – when he heard a sound of shifting sand. He turned to see a small tendril of golden sand slithering in the room from a thin gap under the window and start moving toward the bed Zachary slept into; to gran him a dreamless sleep, he would have to corrupt the sand and send it away before it could reach the boy.

Well, Pitch thought as he emerged from the shadows, here goes nothing. And, without allowing himself any further thought or hesitation, reached out to touch it.

The tendril of sand immediately blackened and began twirling around his fingers. With a deep breath to keep calm – _they can smell fear they must smell none on me I must stay calm I must_ – he brought up his hands, helping the shapeless mass of black sand to shape itself into a proper Nightmare. And, in a few moments, a mare made of black sand was floating above his head. It looked down at him with eyes of molten gold and, for a brief moment before it went to nuzzle his neck, Pitch dared not breathe. But it _did_ nuzzle his neck, recognizing him as its master, and the gnawing worry faded into a moment of pure triumph.

“Oooh, what a pretty nightmare,” he cooed, reaching to stroke the creature's mane. Black sand swirled around his fingers, and he smiled again. He could do it, he realized, he could control them – and the realization felt wonderful, the best thing he had felt in a long time: it was like a part of him had been given back to him after being torn away.

“Come with me. It's high time I give you some companions,” he told the Nightmare before heading for the window and opening it, letting the creature gallop outside. It moved silently, gracefully, barely visible against the blackness of the sky.

It was a moonless night, his favorite kind, and while Sandman was no longer out there he could still see the tendrils of Dreamsand he had left behind. They were getting into each house though windows and chimneys, ready to bring children wonderful dreams... and ready for corruption. Still elated by what had just happened, Pitch cared much less about the possibility of being found; after all, he reasoned, if he was careful about it there was no reason to worry. Sandman would never notice a little missing Dreamsand, after all... and Nightmares would help him grow stronger, as would the children's fear.

Before merging with the darkness to go outside, Pitch took a moment to glance back. Zachary hadn't moved an inch, nothing in his blank expression having changed. No dreams for him, and no nightmares either – just darkness and rest, the way he wanted it.

It looked like both of them got exactly what they wished for that night, he thought, and finally left.

He was not there minutes later to hear the sound of a door opening and steps down the stairs.

He was not there to hear yet another door opening and closing.

He was too far away from the house to see a figure leaving it, shrouded in darkness, heading for the woods.

And he was too busy corrupting children's dreams, too taken by their whimpers of fear and by his Nightmares' neighing, to hear the incessant whispering coming from among the trees along with the soft sound of rustling leaves.

 

* * *

 

“Tim, it's not that we don't want to let you go swim with your friends,” their father was saying over the breakfast table, “but we just don't want you to go now. You're just having lunch now, and you could get sick if you get in the water too soon. Just wait a little.”

“Aww, but dad!”

“Your father is right,” their mother chided him. There was the sound of a dish being put back down. “You have to wait at least two hours after a meal before you can get in the water, remember?”

“But we won't get in the water right away!” Timothy promised through a mouthful of what Zachary assumed had to be potato salad. “We want to fish first. I'll wait two hours before bathing!”

Their mother sighed. “Promise?”

“Promise!”

“Fine, then. You can go. But you really don't want me to catch you disobeying,” she added with a warning note in her voice.

“Won't happen,” Timothy said cheerfully, and then everyone's attention shifted to other subjects. Everyone's but Zachary, whose attention stayed focused on his brother's voice. Something was... off about it. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was it to throw him off, but whenever Timothy spoke he felt like there was something wrong about the way he sounded. And that morning, when he had greeted him with the usual pat on the shoulder... even that had felt odd, and somewhat alien, but he couldn't tell _why_. Tim was acting normally, and yet--

“Zach, are you alright? You're very quiet.”

His mother's voice snapped Zachary from his thoughts. He made an effort to smile. “I'm fine,” he said. “Just a bit tired. Couldn't sleep last night,” he lied. He had actually slept just fine, especially since Pitch had kept his promise and there had been no dreams at all.

Still, he wasn't there when he had awakened. Maybe he had just left to go back to his lair – he hadn't said he'd _stay_ – but Zachary was a bit worried that the Nightmares may have turned against him again or something.

Still, 'I'm worried for the Boogeyman' was not an answer his parents would likely accept without question, along with 'I think Tim is being weird and I don't know why', so in the end he had to settle for the lie. One that, thankfully, his parents fell for.

“You should read a bit less and sleep a bit more, I always tell you,” his father said, and that was the end of it. Zachary just nodded at him, eating a bit faster to be done quickly and be able to go visit Pitch's lair soon. 

All while trying not to focus too much on how _wrong_ his brother's presence felt.

 

* * *

 

“You could have left a _note_ or something!”

Pitch chuckled at the boy's accusation, reaching up to stroke a Nightmare's mane. “Why, were you worried? I'm touched. Girls, stop trying to eat his hair,” he added, causing a couple of Nightmares who had been sniffing and nibbling with interest at Zachary's head to lift their muzzles and step back. The boy didn't fear them, and seemed to make them curious. He was an odd boy, that was for sure, and it certainly felt... peculiar thinking that he had been _worried_ for him.

Worried for the Boogeyman. Now that was new.

Zachary snorted and reached up to fix his hair. “Thanks,” he muttered, still scowling. “Look, you _really_ could have left a note. How was I supposed to know the Nightmares hadn't--”

“They _didn't_ ,” Pitch cut him off sharply. He wanted no talk of possibly turning on him in front of his new Nightmares. What he had to go through once had been enough; he would not let it happen again. “Also, I didn't hear your thanks for giving you what you wanted – a night without dreams.”

That seemed to make Zachary relent. “Yeah, true,” he mumbled. “Thanks. So, how many Nightmares did you make? There's more than one here.”

“Can't you count them with echolocation?”

“They keep moving around and have the consistency of sand. I'm not _that_ good.”

Pitch looked around the lair, where he kept all the Nightmares since they couldn't go out in broad daylight. To be honest, in his glee upon being able to both create Nightmares and control them he hadn't truly bothered to take notice of how many of them he made. Truth to be told, even if his old ones had turned on him after smelling his fear – but that was what they did, what they were _made_ for, and it was nothing he could hold against them personally – he had missed having them. He had been unseen by mortals for a long time, and not at all in good terms with most immortals for an even longer time, so they had been all the company he could have for more than he cared to try recalling.

“A couple dozens,” he finally answered, causing Zachary to raise an eyebrow.

“So much for being careful.”

“I may have let the first success get to my head a little, but not so much,” Pitch said dismissively. “It worked, after all. I can control them, and with each nightmare I cause I grow a little stronger. Crumbles of fear, nothing more, but it's _something,_ and I _need_ it.”

“And you'll make more?”

“Obviously. I'll make some more every night. None of the Guardians will even notice; they didn't notice anything for centuries, after all, and I made so many of them.”

“Hu-uh. If they do notice and come to kick you ass, you're welcome in my closet. But the horses stay out,” Zachary commented, causing Pitch to scowl.

“I can grant you that won't happen,” he said coldly. “And you should mind your language.”

“Nope. I'm trying to make it to the naughty list.”

Pitch stared at him for a moment, then he chuckled. “You know, if North knew you're involved with me you probably would make it to the top in record time.”

Zachary seemed amused by the idea. “And now you gave me a reason to give you away.”

“But then there would be no one to keep dreams away from you.”

“Oh. Right,” Zachary said, and reached up to stroke a Nightmare's muzzle. The black beast nuzzled against his palm with a soft snorting noise.

“They like you,” Pitch commented, not without some surprise.

“Do they?” Zachary asked, and gave the brightest smile he had seen on him yet. And, maybe because things had finally started to look up, Pitch found himself smiling as well.

 

* * *

 

Jack reached down to take another cooking from the tray on the table and stuffed it in his mouth. One thing that had to be told of elves, he thought, was that they were great bakers. He glanced up at the globe as he chewed, but he couldn't see any clear difference since last time. Still, North had called for them with urgency, and that had to mean something... right?

Ignoring Bunnymund's complaints – he was ready to bet that Tooth was only listening with half a ear and nodding out of habit, her mind likely taken by teeth yet to collect – he glanced at Sandman. He was floating over the globe, looking down at the shining lights with a thoughtful expression, and Jack wondered what he was thinking.

He was about to fly up the globe as well to take a closer look and ask when the room's double door opened and North strode in, causing the elves to scamper to let him through and Bunnymund to stop ranting at Tooth and turn his attention to him.

“North, I _swear_ that if this isn't a bloody emergency--”

Whatever Bunnymund had been about to say seemed to die in his throat the moment he took a look at North's expression. And Jack sure couldn't blame him: he hadn't seen North looking that worried in _years_ , since Pitch had almost succeeded to erase all belief in all of them.

“Did something happen?” Tooth asked, flying closer to him. “Is it about the children who stop believing? Has there been more?”

North nodded. “Yes, exactly. More and more children stop believing. Not so many it's obvious, but you notice when you pay attention. And in the past three days...” he shook his head and looked up at the globe. “Ah, I see Sandy already noticed.”

Jack looked up to see that Sandy was perched on a certain spot on the globe, worriedly looking down at it. It took only a moment for him to realize _what_ was there where he was looking, and the next instant he was on the globe as well.

“This can't be! You don't mean... _Burgess_?” he blurted out, staring down at the town's spot on the map with widened eyes. But he could tell they were right, that something was wrong: the golden lights were still there, meaning that there were still children who believed.... but they were _less_ than before.

In any other place it would have probably stayed unnoticed, but not in Burgess: that place was special to Jack. It was the place where he had lived and died and was born again, the place where they had fought Pitch, the place where he had become a Guardian... and the place where children had started _believing_ in him. After what had happened he had come to think of Burgess as his – _their_ – stronghold, and the idea something could be making children who lived there stop believing was simply terrifying. 

_Jamie!_

The mere idea that  _Jamie_ of all people could stop believing in him hurt more than he had thought anything could possibly hurt him. No, it couldn't be! It couldn't happen! He had to go, had to speak to him, had to make sure he still _believed_.

“Jack, wait!” Tooth tried to call after him, but it was too late: Jack had already launched himself to the window and was flying out, surely heading for Burgess.

There were a few moments of silence in the room, then North chuckled. “Well, we should get going, too. I'll get the sleigh ready, yes?”

“Whatever, mate. I'm going my way,” Bunnymund retorted, and for once North didn't try to argue.


End file.
